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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23817031">Tell Me It's a Sure Thing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofherlionheart/pseuds/ofherlionheart'>ofherlionheart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles, Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Banshee Lydia Martin, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Hale Bakes, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Human Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Derek Hale, POV Lydia Martin, POV Stiles Stilinski, POV Third Person, Private Investigator Stiles Stilinski, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Snark, Werewolves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:40:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>67,451</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23817031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofherlionheart/pseuds/ofherlionheart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon Hills is a small town, something of a supernatural haven from hunters, but only because the Nemeton exudes so much twisted energy and attracts such ugly nasties on the regular that no hunter wants to get within a hundred miles of it. It is the hollow sanctuary where Derek and Lydia, like many others before and after them, ended up after fleeing from the nightmare of their old lives.</p><p>Then M. Stiles Stilinski arrives. Bodies begin to appear, hunters become bold enough to venture across town lines, and secrets begin to surface. But somehow, in spite of the growing chaos … Stiles is making it better.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Cora Hale/Isaac Lahey, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin/Jordan Parrish, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>563</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I stopped following this show at the end of Season 3B; it's interesting to be coming back to its world and characters now.</p><p>Title and general vibes inspired by "Hesitate" by Golden Vessel.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>I.</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Lydia first meets him at two in the morning at the laundromat. She is sitting on top of the janky washing machine that has been broken since long before she arrived in this small town and sipping one of Melia Mahealani’s tea concoctions from Boyd’s dented camp mug when the stranger tumbles in through the laundromat’s front door, his greasy and unwashed hair just poking out from behind two armfuls of soiled clothing. Truly, <em>soiled</em> clothing – while most of the colors and patterns are dark, the occasional white shirt or khaki pant reveals dirt streaks and bloodstains that surely are not limited to the lighter-colored fabrics.</p><p>He does not notice Lydia until he has dumped all of his clothes into a single machine and unleashed an impressive string of whispered expletives when the washer takes its sweet time processing his quarters. Only once the plumbing has started to rumble does he stand back, scrubbing a hand through his grimy hair, and look up to catch Lydia’s eye. She stares back at him, too sleep-deprived to muster up any sort of meaningful expression, and he breaks into a grin that would be charming if his eyes did not stay so sharp and wary.</p><p>“I promise I’m not a serial killer,” he says.</p><p>Lydia sips her tea. “A serial killer would use better methods to get out bloodstains.”</p><p>The stranger laughs, and it is like the sound loosens him up – his shoulders drop their tense set, and he throws his hands up in the air to stretch his back and spine. As he does so, his undershirt rides up to reveal a fresh pink scar with a DIY-stitch job running across and up his left hipbone and side.</p><p>Lydia’s eyes flit back to his face, and something in the way he looks at her makes her think that the stretch and the revealing of the scar were deliberate moves. He is not supernatural, or at least not in a way that gives him heightened healing abilities.</p><p>The harsh buzz of a dryer’s timer disturbs the relative silence of the laundromat. Lydia hops off of her broken washer, slams the button that kills the god-awful noise, and then quickly shovels the hot clothing into her hamper. Usually, she would take the time to fold everything neatly before sneaking back into the apartment, but with her back turned to this calculating stranger, she is suddenly aware of how vulnerable she must look: socks-and-sandal footed, messy-haired, and wrapped in one of Derek’s old denim work shirts. Claiming that one is not a serial killer does not absolve one of any and all malicious intent, and while the right kind of scream would have Derek and Boyd awake and at her defense in a minute or less, that would spill a whole different can of worms. <em>Why was she awake? Why was she doing laundry at two AM? Is she having nightmares? Is the insomnia back? Why hasn’t she told Melia Mahealani about it?</em></p><p>Lydia has never really liked worms.</p><p>She is halfway to the door, her ears peeled for the sound of footsteps beneath the rumbling of the washing machine and the buzzing of the ceiling tube lights, when the stranger calls out, “See you around!”</p><p>She does not acknowledge his farewell, no matter how friendly he had sounded, though she does sneak one last look at him through the window as she passes the storefront on her way home. He is still leaning against the same machine as when she left, one long-fingered hand scratching absently at the hinge of his jaw, and Lydia decides he has a face she would not mind seeing again. <em>See you around</em>, he had said, so even if this man is new to Beacon Hills, he will not be leaving anytime soon.</p><p>Really, she should have known that the instant he wandered into her life with a month’s worth of bloodied laundry.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>She gets confirmation later that morning, when she is making her daily run to the Beacon Hills Police Department with a dozen of Derek’s freshly made doughnuts. Even though the station always emanates a low level of death-vibes, Lydia cannot help loving the outdated wood panelling and dark green doors and furniture.</p><p>Today Boyd is the one waiting for her at the front desk, tugging at the uniform shirtsleeves that are never quite comfortable for his large arms. “His name is Stilinski,” Boyd tells Lydia in lieu of an actual greeting.</p><p>“What was that?” Lydia asks, setting down her box and digging Boyd’s thermos of coffee out of her purse.</p><p>“The stranger you asked me to look up. Stilinski,” Boyd repeats, sounding out each syllable. He pops open the doughnut box, sniffs carefully, and shuts it again. “These reek like sadness. Is Derek okay?”</p><p><em>No, Derek is definitely not okay</em>, Lydia thinks, but if after all these years Derek still has not told Boyd that today is the anniversary of Laura’s death, she will not be the one who betrays the heartbreaks that Derek wishes to keep personal.</p><p>“He’s fine,” Lydia says dismissively. “How’d you find Stilinski so quickly?”</p><p>Boyd taps a white paper sitting at the top of the inbox tray on the front desk. “He filed for construction permissions, late last night.”</p><p>Lydia grabs the paper, ignoring Boyd’s noise of protest. <em>181 Birch Street</em> is scrawled in the address box, right below <em>M. Stiles Stilinski</em>.</p><p>“No wonder,” Lydia muses, “181 Birch is barely a shack.”</p><p>There is a light twinge at the base of Lydia’s skull, and she cannot cover her automatic wince and scowl quickly enough. “Lydia?” Boyd asks, eyes glimmering gold for a second.</p><p>“Nothing,” she replies. Because if there is nothing she can do to solve a recurring problem, then the problem basically <em>is</em> nothing, isn’t it?</p><p>Boyd does not look convinced, but he leaves it for now, glancing at his watch. “If Parrish doesn’t show up soon he’s going to be late.”</p><p>“He won’t be,” Lydia mutters. She readjusts her purse and reaches out to brush a thumb over Boyd’s cheek. “Be safe,” she tells him sternly, and Boyd smiles.</p><p>Lydia makes it to the Camaro and starts to think that she will make her escape when a police cruiser pulls into the parking lot. The weight at the base of Lydia’s skull, now too solid and heavy to ignore, confirms who is behind the wheel. She has a moment to stare at her reflection in the Camaro’s window before turning with a neutral if not quite friendly countenance.</p><p>“Good morning, Miss Martin,” Jordan Parrish says, climbing out of his cruiser.</p><p>“Parrish.”</p><p>It has been two years since Jordan Parrish moved to Beacon Hills, looking and acting as human as they come, and Lydia still does not know why her banshee instincts instantly forged a psychic connection to the man. She knows there must be <em>something</em> about Parrish, and she knows Melia Mahealani knows what that thing is, but Melia, in her usual cryptic way, simply told Lydia that some stories are only meant to be told by their bearers. Whatever that means.</p><p>“I had to redirect some traffic around a car breakdown,” Parrish says. “The guy just moved here, said his name was –”</p><p>“Stilinski,” Lydia cuts in. “Boyd told me.”</p><p>Parrish nods, unbothered by her interruption. “His Jeep must’ve had at least three rolls of duct tape holding it together under the hood, but he looked like he might’ve killed me when I suggested looking for a new car.”</p><p>This is why Lydia hates interacting with Parrish: he is always so normal and friendly that she <em>wants</em> to like him. A part of her probably already does. But she still has this stupid unexplained psychic connection to him – a connection that she does not know if he, too, feels – and even if the sensation of the connection is not bothersome, not knowing why it exists irritates Lydia to no end.</p><p>“Boyd is waiting for you,” Lydia says flatly, and Parrish takes the hint.</p><p>“Have a good day, Miss Martin.”</p><p>Lydia is a mile away from the station when the last hints of Parrish’s presence disappear and she can breathe easy again.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Tuesdays are the quietest mornings at the bakery and therefore Derek’s favorite mornings. There are fewer customers coming in, fewer strangers with whom he has to interact, and more opportunities to retreat to the kitchen and work on custom orders when the front of the store is calm.</p><p>The calm is more of a blessing than usual today. Earlier in the morning, Lydia had taken one look at him and asked if he wanted to close shop for the day, but Derek declined. People love Whittemore Bakery enough to ask genuinely concerned but very personal questions if they close on a non-holiday, and Derek –</p><p>Derek does not like sharing his grief.</p><p>Lydia let it go, in the same way that Derek did not ask about the dark circles under her eyes or the fresh pile of clean clothes that had appeared on top of his dresser overnight. For all that he, Lydia, and Boyd are a pack, the extent to which they do not open up to each other would have horrified Derek’s family. “Wolves have no secrets,” his mother used to say. Then again, she had not been alive to witness the things that forced Derek to become so closed and secretive.</p><p>Derek is hiding in the kitchen, attempting to distract himself from his own grief by burying his senses in the smell of frosting and the crackle of the classical radio station, when a literal shout finally breaks his focus.</p><p>“Hello! Anyone home?”</p><p>A scowl deep enough to look like a snarl twists Derek’s face, and he bangs through the shutter swing doors between the kitchen and the storefront, ready to snap at whoever is being so demanding at nine in the fucking morning –</p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p>There is a stranger at the counter. Not a Beacon Hills resident whose name Derek cannot be bothered to remember, but an actual stranger, who carries the smell of coffee and gunmetal so strongly that Derek cannot make out his actual scent amidst the other aromas of the bakery. He has light brown eyes that remind Derek of his father’s favorite aconite-laced whiskey and long fingers with blunt nails that drum of their own volition against the countertop.</p><p>Derek realizes the scowl has melted right off his face. He clears his throat and asks, “What?”</p><p>The stranger smiles, seemingly unbothered by Derek’s bluntness. “A kind man named Jordan Parrish recommended I try Whittemore Bakery for breakfast,” he says. His eyes flit over Derek, clinical and devoid of anything like desire. “Are you Whittemore?”</p><p>Derek shakes his head. “Whittemore died before this place opened.”</p><p>The stranger’s face softens, in a way that makes Derek think he is intimately familiar with grief. “My condolences.”</p><p>“What do you want?”</p><p>“Ah, blueberry muffin and coffee to go?”</p><p>Derek rings him up and serves him, and he thinks that will be the end of that, but the stranger lingers at the counter. “What’s your name?” he asks.</p><p>His face seems so open and sincere that Derek’s heart stutters on a beat, but then he realizes how sharp and calculating the stranger’s eyes really are, and the smell of gunmetal comes back in full force, bringing a sudden surge of memories that Derek tries so hard to forget – <em>Kate</em> and <em>fire</em> and <em>bullets</em> ripping through the woods he once called home –</p><p>Derek pulls one of his business cards that Lydia had insisted on from behind the register, slides it across the counter, and stalks back into the kitchen. He thinks he hears the stranger inhale sharply, but he does not let himself look back to check. A string quartet crackles through the outdated radio, and Derek forces himself to follow the melody of the cello until the soft tinkle of the front door’s bell tells him that the stranger has likely left.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>When Lydia returns from her morning delivery runs, she is inwardly fuming in a way that means she must have run into Jordan Parrish, but Derek does not try to talk to her about it. Boyd seems to trust and even like Parrish, and when Derek asked Melia about it, Melia had sworn up and down that Parrish was no threat, so Derek assumes it is a Lydia problem that she would rather deal with herself. Derek can feel his mother’s disapproving gaze from beyond the grave – <em>Wolves have no secrets</em> – but he has always been a champ at ignoring responsibilities that frighten him, so why start confronting them now?</p><p>The stranger from this morning, however. He might a potential threat, but he does not frighten Derek in the same way that making Lydia open up does, so Derek takes his lunch break to walk down the street to the Mahealanis’ shop and ask some questions.</p><p>Mahealani’s Apothecary and Tea Shop is a brown wooden building that extends for much longer than a glance at the petite storefront would suggest. The front window flower boxes house something new each month, usually a plant fragrant enough to make Derek sneeze as he walks through the front door. This month is no different, and as Derek pushes through the front door his still-watering eyes almost keep him from seeing Melia glide across the apothecary to greet him.</p><p>“Alpha Hale!” she exclaims and wraps Derek in a tight hug that no five-foot-one, 178-year-old woman should be capable of, but Derek hears his ribs creaking nonetheless.</p><p>“Melia,” Derek acknowledges. He nods at her grandson, Danny, who looks amused from behind the register.</p><p>“You never visit, Derek,” Melia accuses, dragging Derek to sit on a stool across from Danny. “Can I get you some tea? What do you need? More restful sleep? Less joint pain? Sharper vision?”</p><p>“Werewolf genetics take care of most of that, thank you,” Derek says. Melia barks a laugh and pinches his cheek.</p><p>“I assume you want to know more about the newcomer?”</p><p>Derek narrows his eyes with suspicion – <em>how had she known?</em> – but before he can ask Melia rolls her eyes. “The last time you came here without a bullet wound was when Jordan Parrish showed up. You’re predictable, Derek Hale, and I am wise.”</p><p>“Grandma,” Danny warns under his breath.</p><p>Melia absently pats Danny’s shoulder. “His name is Stilinski.” She slides Danny a meaningful look. “I’ve heard he likes both women <em>and</em> men.”</p><p>Danny buries his face in his palms. “Oh, my God, Grandma, <em>how</em> do you know that?”</p><p>“The grapevine,” Melia answers lightly, which everyone in Beacon Hills knows is code for, <em>You would rather not know</em>.</p><p>“He’s from California, somewhere in the central valley region,” she continues. “People I know seem to regard him very highly. And that’s all I really know.”</p><p>Derek and Danny exchange a look. Melia makes a point to distinguish between <em>That’s all I’ll tell you</em> and <em>That’s all I know</em>, and what she has just shared about Stilinski…</p><p>“That’s all?” Danny echoes, expressing Derek’s thoughts exactly.</p><p>Melia shrugs, untroubled.</p><p>“What if he’s a hunter?” Derek grounds out.</p><p>Melia whips her head around to glare at Derek with irises that flash gold. “He is not a hunter,” she says.</p><p>“He <em>reeks</em> of gunmetal –”</p><p>“He is <em>not a hunter</em>.”</p><p>Melia’s repeated sentence comes with a small push of power that emanates from her like a shockwave, making Derek’s hair stand on end and filling his nose with something like ozone. Derek grudgingly bows his head with respect, and Melia’s magic retreats back to beneath her skin.</p><p>“You know the lengths I go to in order to protect this town and those within it,” Melia reminds Derek softly. “If Stilinski becomes a threat, I will get rid of him.”</p><p>Derek nods and rises from his stool. “Thank you,” he says and leaves before he can accidentally affront Melia again.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>By six in the evening on his first full day in Beacon Hills, Stiles is already working on reinforcing the panic room in his shack of a new home, because even if Beacon Hills is primarily non-digital, they still process permissions quicker than Laverton ever did, <em>Sheriff Dad</em>. Stiles is excited, happy to absorb himself in the basic manual labor tasks of constructing and reinforcing a home, but – <em>but</em> –</p><p>He cannot absorb himself. Not completely.</p><p>With a frustrated sigh, Stiles sets down his drill and whips off his work gloves as he marches up the stairs to his kitchen. The business card is sitting on the counter where he had left it the last time he came up here, only fifteen minutes ago, to entertain his agitated thoughts. <em>Whittemore Bakery, Derek Hale, Head Baker and Dessert Artist</em>, the card reads.</p><p>Stiles swallows the lump in his throat, closes his eyes, and reminds himself to breathe.</p><p>He has heard the full tragedy of the Hale family exactly once, during a moonless night in the mountainous backwoods of Colorado, when he had held a sobbing Cora Hale in his arms as the blood of a pack of dead alphas dried on Stiles’s skin. He had asked Cora how she became a prisoner of Deucalion’s alpha pack and ended up hearing her entire life story: losing her family and pack to an arsonist’s attack, but being saved, taken in, and raised by Kali and Julia. Losing nearly everyone all over again, when Kali’s pack was attacked by hunters. Kali losing her mind and being seduced by Deucalion’s promises of power. Julia saving Cora from Kali’s murderous rampage and dying for doing so. Lastly, five months prior to Stiles coming along, Cora being taken by Deucalion so he could have leverage over Kali.</p><p>Honestly, Stiles also cried, though he hid his sobs in Cora’s hair. There were days when his grief for his mother wrapped like a vice around his heart, and he could not imagine how it felt to lose your pack not once, but twice.</p><p>Once he had brought Cora back to California and set her up with two betas that Stiles had vetted and approved, Stiles searched for signs of any other Hales that survived the fire. He found three names: Peter, Laura, and Derek. The first two were dead. The last had simply … disappeared. Stiles had passed on the information to Cora and wished for her to make the most of what she did have in her life.</p><p>But now Derek Hale is back. Baking cakes and doughnuts and scones and anything else imaginable in a bakery that is named after someone long dead.</p><p>Stiles can answer at least a few of the questions that flooded his mind the instant he first read this card at the counter of the aforementioned bakery. There is no doubt that Melia Mahealani, the most powerful witch on the Pacific Coast and self-proclaimed protector of Beacon Hills, has kept the identity of Beacon Hills’s sole alpha hidden from the rest of the world. Since Derek <em>is</em> an alpha but was not the eldest of the Hale children, he was probably also involved in the events that lead to the deaths of Laura, Peter, Kate Argent, and a smattering of the hunters that Kate once bandied about with.</p><p>There are still many unanswered questions, ranging in how tangential they are to the central matter of <em>Derek Hale is alive</em>, but the one that is truly tormenting Stiles right now is this: Does he tell Cora that her older brother is alive?</p><p>Stiles really, really hates that he has a tendency to make people’s lives harder, but there is no denying the answer that has been thudding alongside his heart since this morning: yes, yes, yes.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Stiles figures he can get in touch with Cora in a few days, just to let himself settle into town a bit more, and once he has talked with Cora, he can return to Whittemore Bakery and talk to Derek. Bringing Cora and Derek together again is a Big Thing, and Stiles has learned – from many past lessons with Scott, with Allison, with Chris, hell, even with his dad – that when it comes to Big Things, Stiles pulls them off much more smoothly when he has had time to fully think through the situation and every possible consequence of every possible action.</p><p>So of course he runs into Derek at the hardware store the very next day.</p><p>“Der– <em>hey!</em>” Stiles exclaims, remembering at the last second that he and Derek are technically strangers and therefore casually using first names might be weird.</p><p>Derek whips his head up from the bottle of wood glue he had been staring at, his nostrils flaring as Stiles comes closer. Stiles almost tries to subtly sniff his armpit – does he really smell that bad? – when he remembers that he took a shower only two hours ago. He forces himself to make the active decision to not be offended.</p><p>“How are you, man?” Stiles asks.</p><p>It takes a comically long time for Derek to respond, and even then, he only gives Stiles a noncommittal shrug. Stiles decides he likes Derek’s shoulders, that he likes most of Derek’s <em>everything</em>, actually. Back at the bakery, there had been so many distracting sights and scents and sounds, but here, in a utilitarian aisle of woodworking supplies, there is nothing to pull Stiles’s full attention away from Derek.</p><p>“What’s the glue for?” Stiles asks, nodding at the bottle in Derek’s hands.</p><p>Derek contemplates the bottle like it is an entirely foreign object. “Some of the bakery chairs need repairing,” he answers.</p><p>“Yeah, uh, speaking of the bakery –” <em>What the </em>fuck<em>, Stilinski, way to sound natural</em>, Stiles scolds himself, “– will you be there, uh, next Thursday? Not tomorrow, but like. <em>Next</em> Thursday.”</p><p>Derek blinks, and Stiles mentally makes a noise of agreement. <em>I know, buddy, I don’t get it either. I haven’t been this incoherent since high school</em>. “I co-own it,” Derek eventually responds. “So yes.”</p><p>“Great!” Stiles goes to clap a hand on Derek’s shoulder and aborts the movement halfway when he remembers some people do not like strangers touching them. “Well. I’ll see you around! Happy chair repairs.”</p><p>Stiles escapes Derek’s hazel-eyed gaze as quickly as he can. Looping back to the woodworking aisle at the end of his shopping trip is a small price to pay to avoid shoving his foot any further into his mouth in the presence of Derek Hale.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>II.</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Derek is used to suddenly waking in the middle of night to nothing more than a nagging feeling that something is wrong; it is part of being an alpha, of being psychically bound those in your pack whom you are meant to protect. Once Derek is fully alert, it only takes him a moment to recognize the racing pulse and soft whimpers coming from the room next to his. He sits up in bed, taking him time to fumble for the switch to turn on his bedside lamp, and he has just grabbed the half-empty glass of water from his bedside table when the whimpers turn into a scream.</p><p>It is never good when she starts screaming.</p><p>Derek dashes from his room and uses the doorjamb to swing into Lydia’s. Though a human scream and not a banshee one, her voice still sounds frantic and terrified as it rips from her throat. Derek flicks on the lights to see her writhing beneath her covers. “Lydia, Lydia, Lydia,” he says, trying to sound soothing, as he puts the water glass on her nightstand and climbs into her bed.</p><p>She is still thrashing her limbs, trapped in her dream world, and Derek uses as gentle a touch as he can to pin Lydia’s wrists to her mattress. “Lydia, wake up,” Derek urges, leaning in to speak right into her ear. “Lydia, it’s a dream. It’s just a dream.”</p><p>With a loud inhale, Lydia’s spine arches off the bed and her eyes flare open. She finds Derek’s face, and Derek nods reassuringly, holding Lydia’s gaze until she catches her breath. “Just a dream,” Derek repeats weakly, because when it comes to Lydia, it rarely is ever just a dream.</p><p>He lets go of her wrists but is not surprised when she immediately loops her arms around his neck to pull him down until he is flush against her, his body acting as a weight to keep her grounded to the present. He murmurs nonsense into her ear, something about the ingredients he is going to use for the doughnuts he has to make in the morning, until her breathing matches his and her fingers stop trembling against his shoulders.</p><p>Only then does Derek push himself off and to the side, so he is no longer crushing Lydia as he asks, “What was it?”</p><p>Lydia rolls onto her side, pressing her forehead against Derek’s collarbone. “They murdered a fucking <em>kid</em>.”</p><p>“Who did?”</p><p>Lydia closes her eyes and wets her lips. “Hunters.”</p><p>Derek fights his urge to growl, knowing that Lydia needs quiet to concentrate on recovering.</p><p>There was once a time, back when they first met each other and were both on the run to Beacon Hills, that nights like these would result in sex. Sex had been the best solution Lydia and her boyfriend had come up with when they were teenagers facing Lydia’s manifesting abilities alone, its intrinsic physicality serving to re-ground Lydia in reality. Then the boyfriend had been murdered, Lydia had to flee, and when Derek stumbled into Lydia’s life and she nursed him back from the brink of death – well, when Lydia told Derek in exact and unapologetic terms what she needed to stay herself after her untamed banshee senses went on a trip, Derek could empathize. Not with the nightmares and hallucinations of being a banshee, but with the fear of losing one’s last shred of humanity after a too-long, too-strong trip with one’s supernatural side.</p><p>“You can say no,” Lydia had told him at the end of her explanation, heart and voice steady despite the deep bags under her eyes and the pallor of her skin.</p><p>But Derek said yes. He was used to his body being used by other people, had long ago abandoned the idea that sex could be about him finding pleasure in his own physicality, and here, in this way, at least he could give himself in a way that would help someone he cared about.</p><p>They have come a long way since then, Derek reflects as he runs his fingers through Lydia’s strawberry hair. Both of them, individually and together. Thanks in large part to Melia’s herbal remedies and the security of having a place to call home, Lydia can now ground herself with minimal help, and Derek is no longer overpowered by the urge to bite random teenagers.</p><p>“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Lydia croaks.</p><p>Derek sits up, nudging Lydia to do the same, and passes her the glass of water he had brought with him. “My character development leaves something to be desired.”</p><p>Lydia snorts into her water and smacks his chest with the back of her hand. “Give yourself more credit.”</p><p>Derek glances at the clock on Lydia’s nightstand. 3:26, not even a hour before Derek’s own alarm clock would be going off. “I’m going to go down,” Derek tells Lydia. “Will you be okay?”</p><p>Lydia nods, passing the glass back to Derek to place on the nightstand. “Don’t forget about the Pritchett wedding cake.”</p><p>It is only once Derek is downstairs in the bakery kitchen and coaxing the oven to life that he remembers what Lydia’s dream had been about: Hunters, murdering children.</p><p>Derek shudders from a chill deep in his spine. Beacon Hills has not seen a hunter cross its town lines in over twenty years. If they are coming close enough to appear in Lydia’s nightmares … that is good for no one.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Since Lydia still feels low-energy by the start of the regular workday, Derek volunteers to make the usual morning delivery rounds. His father’s old Camaro feels strangely unfamiliar to him; since he and Lydia arrived in Beacon Hills, Derek has had little reason to drive in a town where all the necessities are walking distance from their apartment, and Derek is more than happy to let Lydia take care of Whittemore Bakery deliveries if that means he can spend time alone with his creations.</p><p>Derek decides to make the police station his last stop, if only so he can linger and talk to Boyd for a bit. Boyd is independent and self-sufficient, so Derek never worries, per se, when he has not heard from his beta in a few days, but the silence does become uncomfortable.</p><p>When Derek walks through the front doors, Parrish immediately looks up from where he is manning the front desk. “Derek,” he says, surprised. “Good morning. Is – is Miss Martin all right?”</p><p>“Fine.” Derek lifts the doughnut box. “Where does this go?”</p><p>“I can take it,” Parrish says. “Boyd is –”</p><p>“He just pulled in,” Derek supplies.</p><p>He can hear Boyd’s heartbeat from the parking lot, but it is not until he enters the building that Derek can smell his distress. He raises his eyebrows at Boyd, and Boyd shakes his head grimly.</p><p>“They found a body on the town line,” Boyd says, brushing a hand against Derek’s arm as he goes for a doughnut. Derek squeezes his beta’s shoulder; Boyd must be really concerned if he is caving to sugary sweets before noon.</p><p>Parrish frowns, craning his neck to look past Derek and Boyd through the glass front doors. “The coroner?”</p><p>“Coming up in a few,” Boyd supplies. He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist and passes the second half of his doughnut to Parrish. “Human sacrifice.”</p><p>Parrish fumbles the doughnut, sending it splattering to the floor, and Derek cannot help the growl that escapes his throat.</p><p>Magic is something that Derek does not particularly like. It is not uncommon for certain magic to require the taking of a life, sometimes of something like a beetle, sometimes of something like a human. The latter ranges from self-sacrifice – an extreme price, yes, but usually Derek can wrap his head around the result being worth the cost – to sacrificing others. As far as Derek sees it, when sacrificing unwilling others comes into play, nothing but nasty, evil things come out of magic.</p><p>Derek’s ears pick up the sound of approaching sirens, so he shakes off his unease as best he can and gives Boyd a hard look. “We’ll talk later,” he says, and Boyd nods without any qualms. Derek still is not sure he will ever be used to a beta actually following one of Derek’s requests or demands without resisting or talking back.</p><p>Parrish finally snaps out of his state of shock and dives to recover the doughnut on the floor. “Good to see you, Derek,” he calls to Derek’s retreating back, and Derek raises a hand in acknowledgement, but his mind is already far elsewhere. He needs to rush home and convince Lydia to visit Melia, because if there is anyone who can make sense of human sacrifices and Lydia’s nightmares, it is the most powerful witch on the Pacific coast.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Lydia Martin never <em>actually</em> loses arguments to Derek Hale, but there are occasions – more than Lydia would like to admit – when battling through Derek’s obstinacy with reason and logic would waste more time and breath than just doing whatever it is Derek thinks should be done. Today’s argument is too sad to really be called an argument: Lydia fires off a few very strong points in her favor, but Derek just glowers at her with a soft growl rumbling low in his chest for ten minutes, so Lydia eventually rolls her eyes and stalks out of Whittemore Bakery.</p><p>This late in the evening, hardly anyone is out on the main street, and Lydia expects Melia’s shop to likewise be empty. She is therefore surprised to see, upon entering the shop, a tall and slender figure leaning against the register and chatting it up with Danny.</p><p>Both men pause in conversation and turn to Lydia when the door shuts loudly behind her. Danny nods, but Lydia forgets to respond, because the other man is the stranger from the laundromat. M. Stiles Stilinski.</p><p>“Where’s Melia?” Lydia asks, approaching Danny even as she remains hyperaware of Stilinski in her peripheral.</p><p>“Out on an errand,” Danny replies. “She’ll be back soon.” He gestures at the Stilinski, whose smile is kind but whose eyes are still sharp and assessing, and starts to say, “This is – ”</p><p>“Stilinski,” Lydia supplies.</p><p>The man in question does not appear to have a reaction to her already knowing his name. “Please, call me Stiles,” he says, rising to offer Lydia a handshake. “It’s nice to see you again.”</p><p>His tone is light and friendly, so Lydia accepts his shake, two pumps of a calloused hand that is a touch too firm in its grip, as if relaying a cautionary threat: <em>Do not cross me, or else</em>.</p><p>“Lydia,” she tells him.</p><p>Stiles repeats her name a few times in an undertone and then asks, “You’re also in need of audience with the phenomenal Melia Mahealani?”</p><p>Lydia looks at Danny, who looks as relaxed as he usually does. Lydia cannot remember the last time she saw Danny look even remotely stressed or anxious. “Yes,” Lydia answers Stiles. “Why do you need to see her?”</p><p>Stiles shrugs, a simple gesture that somehow involves his entire body. “Just wondering if she really is the all-knowing protector of this little town,” he says. He is doing that thing again with his inflection – light enough to be a joke, but sincere enough to lend the possibility of seriousness.</p><p>Lydia is, admittedly, jealous. Her inflection does nothing but give away her emotional state the instant a word passes through her lips.</p><p>“And what brings you here, Lydia?” Stiles asks.</p><p>“Tea recommendations,” she replies shortly.</p><p>Danny raises a judgmental eyebrow at Lydia – he knows damn well that Lydia hates the taste of Melia’s remedial teas, and that tea recommendations are the very last thing that would convince Lydia to make an unscheduled visit to Mahealani’s Apothecary and Tea Shop – but Lydia is saved by the front door opening to a velvet-smooth voice singing, “Danny, my darling, do we have customers?”</p><p>Perhaps Melia has met Stiles before, or perhaps she has not, but she bustles right over and aggressively pokes the air in Stiles’s direction. “You, with me, to my office,” she orders and continues to the back of the shop without waiting to hear Stiles respond. Stiles instantly obeys, and without saying anything to Lydia or Danny – as if he forgot they were even in the room – he trails after Melia.</p><p>Lydia raises an eyebrow at Danny, who shrugs. “I don’t ask my grandmother any more questions than strictly necessary,” he offers as a general defense – defending <em>what</em>, Lydia does not know – but Lydia goes along with it.</p><p>“How are you?” Lydia asks. She and Danny are friends. She thinks. Or maybe she just has a soft spot for him because Danny reminds her of Jackson’s best friend from middle and high school.</p><p>Danny waves a hand, as if to say <em>whatever</em>, and fixes Lydia with an unusually serious look. “Why are you really here?” he asks her.</p><p>Lydia huffs. “Derek came back from making deliveries today in a growly mood and insisted that I talk to Melia about some stupid dream I had last night.”</p><p>“Did he go by the BHPD?”</p><p>“Yes, always. Why?”</p><p>Danny bites the inside of his cheek. “He probably heard about the human sacrifice.”</p><p>Lydia’s blood runs cold. “The <em>what?</em>”</p><p>Danny nods, troubled. “They found the body near the town line. I don’t know what the coroner’s calling it, but for anyone who knows about – you know, all of <em>this</em> –” he makes a lazy, looping gesture that could mean the shop, him and Lydia, the town, anything supernatural, really, and continues, “ – it’s the work of a witch who is dealing with seriously dark power.”</p><p>Lydia shudders. She wishes she could say this is the first time she or even Beacon Hills has dealt with witches who sacrifice humans, but it already happened once six years ago. The police and Melia had worked together to catch the culprit, and then the police conveniently turned a blind eye when Melia “took care of” the problem. Despite the relatively quick fix, Lydia still has waking nightmares of the things her banshee senses had projected into her dreams when the victim was murdered, sights and sounds that Lydia knows will haunt her until the days she dies.</p><p>“Things aren’t getting better, are they?” Lydia asks softly.</p><p>She does not elaborate on what she means by <em>things</em>, but she does not have to – Danny is already shaking his head sadly. “Melia is too attached to the Nemeton to destroy it,” he says.</p><p>If it were Lydia, she would have taken an axe to the tree with her own two hands the instant the sickness appeared, but Melia does not operate on the cold lines of logic that Lydia prefers. Perhaps when your soul has been bonded to a dozen or so trees that have collectively lived for over a millennium, you have more qualms about chopping down forests.</p><p>Lydia is about to ask Danny whether being soulbonded makes a witch a tree hugger when the door to the back offices flies open. Stiles hustles out, muttering from behind his thumb as he bites at a fingernail, and Melia appears after him, leaning against the door frame. There is a purse to her lips that almost sends Lydia rushing out the door with Stiles, because a displeased Melia leads to nothing but headaches and a high chance of miscellaneous items being set on fire – sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.</p><p>“Bye, Stiles,” Danny says, half-amused and half-concerned.</p><p>Stiles whips around, nearly knocking into a display rack. He waves at Danny, tosses a “See you Thursday,” at Lydia, and is out the door.</p><p>Lydia’s mind reels as she wonders what would guarantee her and Stiles seeing each other two days from now, but a pointedly cleared throat interrupts her thoughts.</p><p>Melia arches an eyebrow. “I’m not getting any younger, Lydia.”</p><p>Lydia bites back the retort that jumps to her tongue and follows Melia into the back.</p><p>Melia’s office would be cozy if it were not bursting with fragrances so strong and non-complementary they make Lydia’s eyes water. The herbs and flowers, some alive, some dried, some pressed, some in who-knows-what condition, cover every surface and fill every nook and cranny. Lydia perches herself on the edge of a stool, careful not to damage the vine that is wrapped around its four wooden legs.</p><p>Melia, her mouth still in an unhappy set, busies herself with watering the flowers in the planters that hang from the ceiling. “What brings you here without an appointment?” she asks Lydia.</p><p>“A lack of energy to deal with Derek’s stubborn bullshit.”</p><p>Melia barks a surprised laugh, and the way her face loosens a bit makes Lydia more comfortable. “My favorite emotionally stunted alpha,” Melia says fondly.</p><p>“I had a dream last night,” Lydia pushes on. When things are unpleasant, it is best to just get it over with. “A group of hunters killed a kid.”</p><p>Melia sobers, eyebrows pinching together as she scrutinizes Lydia. One of her hands idly brushes the leaves of a potted fern on her desk. “How many hunters?”</p><p>“Five.”</p><p>“How old the child?”</p><p>“Early high school, maybe.”</p><p>“How did the child die?”</p><p>Lydia’s stomach turns with remembrance. “They cut him in half.”</p><p>“Head to crotch or through the waist?”</p><p>Lydia blanches. “Does it <em>matter?</em>” she asks, aghast. When Melia’s hard expression does not so much as twitch, Lydia curls her lip. “Through the waist.”</p><p>Melia nods. She stops petting the fern, snatches up a pen to scribble on a scrap paper, and then waves Lydia in dismissal. “You may go.”</p><p>Lydia is glued to her chair. “That’s it?”</p><p>“That is all.”</p><p>“But – no grand interpretation? Does it have to do with the human sacrifice?”</p><p>The air suddenly crackles with electricity, at the same time that a half-dead plant sitting in a floor pot bursts into flame.</p><p>God, Lydia is surrounded by dramatic and emotionally stunted people. Nonetheless, Lydia picks herself up and leaves Melia’s office.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Five minutes to close, with Lydia stacking chairs in the cafe half of Whittemore Bakery and Derek messing around with cake decorating in the kitchen, there is a soft knock on the storefront window. Lydia looks up with a frown, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and almost startles when she recognizes the figure on the other side of the glass.</p><p>Right. Today is Thursday.</p><p>Lydia crosses the empty store to open the door and stick her head outside. “Did you leave fingerprints on my windows?” she asks.</p><p>Stiles tugs at his hair. “Is Derek in there?” he asks.</p><p>Lydia blinks. She had not the faintest idea that Derek and Stiles even knew each other. Then again, Lydia supposes, Stiles could know Derek while Derek does not know who Stiles is.</p><p>“Why?” Lydia asks.</p><p>Stiles twitches. It would barely register in Lydia’s thoughts, except that it makes Stiles looks <em>nervous</em>, and nervousness is one of the very last things Lydia would have thought to associate with Stiles.</p><p>“I need him to meet someone,” Stiles says evasively.</p><p>Lydia crosses her arms. In the twenty-four years that she has lived on this hellish planet, there are very few people with whom Lydia has become close and about whom she actually gives a damn. Jackson was one, until he became collateral in a battle between hunters and a passing werewolf pack. Her father was one, until he fucked off with a hot young model and abandoned his wife and daughter when Lydia was ten years old. Her mother was one, until her reaction to Jackson’s becoming a werewolf was trying to get him thrown behind bars. At this point, the only people left in Lydia’s circle are Derek and Boyd – Derek, who is her alpha and one of the reasons why she is even still alive, and Boyd, whose steady presence keeps both Lydia and their pack grounded. Lydia is willing to gamble and play with the life of most anybody, but when it comes to her two men, the inkling of a threat puts her on high alert.</p><p>So she crosses her arms, arches an eyebrow, and asks Stiles, “Do I have a reason to trust you?”</p><p>“You don’t.”</p><p>There is no change to Stiles’s expression, which is caught, as usual, somewhere between lightheartedly sincere and deadly serious. Lydia stares, even as her brain and her gut flip in circles. Ironically, in this moment, his honest answer <em>has</em> made Lydia trust him, just enough to answer his initial question with the truth. “He’s in the kitchen.”</p><p>Stiles nods, twitching again, and asks, “Can you get him to come to the front? Please?”</p><p>Lydia sniffs. She is a sentient being, not a golden retriever, thank you very much, but before she can say anything scathing, Stiles turns heel. “Just going to grab – my friend!” he shouts over his shoulder and disappears around the corner of the block.</p><p>Lydia goes back into the bakery, looking around the building with new eyes. She is suddenly hyperaware of the fact that they do not have any defenses for what is essentially the first floor of their house. Melia had offered to put up protective panic wards when Derek first bought the building, but Derek had declined, insisting that the scent of such condensed and powerful magic screwed with his sense of smell. Sure, they had the foundations lined with mountain ash – as almost every building in Beacon Hills did – and Lydia herself was capable of completing the barrier by throwing a handful across the storefront’s threshold. But mountain ash could only go so far; it could not stop a human or arrows or bullets from entering the bakery.</p><p>“Derek?” Lydia calls.</p><p>Her voice must betray her inner emotional turmoil, because Derek immediately comes out of the kitchen, wiping icing off of his hands with a wet rag. “What’s wrong?” he asks, heavy eyebrows furrowed.</p><p>Lydia shakes her head. “Nothing. Just – Stiles Stilinski wants to see you.”</p><p>Derek’s frown deepens, until his eyes widen with a realization. “It’s Thursday.”</p><p>Now <em>Lydia</em> is confused. “Did you know about this?”</p><p>“This?” Derek echoes.</p><p>God, neither of them knows a <em>thing</em>. Lydia hates it. “Stiles, he wants to introduce you –”</p><p>Suddenly Derek whips his head up and looks out the window. His face contorts with an emotion Lydia has never seen on Derek’s face before, something raw and gutted yet hopeful, and it terrifies Lydia.</p><p>She grabs his arm, just to hold onto something, and turns to follow his gaze.</p><p>Stiles walks around the corner with not one but three others with him. Next to him strides a dark-haired woman so lean she seems to be made entirely of muscle, and behind them are a blonde woman wearing a leather jacket and a lanky man whose shoulders are hunched.</p><p>As Lydia takes it all in, the dark-haired woman looks through the window. Her jaw drops, her eyes flashing blue, and Lydia can feel that Derek stops breathing beside her.</p><p>“Derek?” the dark-haired woman exclaims, loud enough to be heard through the glass.</p><p>An actual <em>whine</em> escapes Derek.</p><p>The woman sprints, and next thing Lydia knows, Lydia is standing four feet to the right and the stranger has her arms flung around Derek’s neck. Derek embraces the stranger just as tightly, his eyes blown wide with disbelief as he breathes deeply, nostrils flaring against her dark hair.</p><p>Lydia looks between the embracing couple and the doorway, where Stiles and the other two hover, and back at the couple. Her mind races.</p><p>Derek’s circle of people he cares about is about as small as Lydia’s, not because of a general apathy towards others, but because Derek trusts no one. His distrust even extends to his pack members, sometimes; Lydia knows that he shuts out her and Boyd more often than is healthy for a normal human friendship, much less an alpha and pack relationship.</p><p>Yet here is Derek, expressing more emotion than Lydia has seen from him in years, in front of literal strangers, all because of the small woman in his arms. There is only one possible answer to who she could be, yet it should not be possible.</p><p>Derek’s hand strokes over the woman’s hair. “You’re … <em>alive?</em>” he chokes out.</p><p>The woman laughs, shrill enough to sound hysterical. “I’m alive?<em>You’re</em> alive, Derek, oh my God.”</p><p>Derek pulls back, enough so he can see the woman’s face. “How – how did you –”</p><p>“Please, no,” the woman says fervently, “Questions later. I still –” Another shrill, disbelieving laugh “– can’t believe it’s <em>you</em>. When Stiles said –”</p><p>It happens in a second.</p><p>When the stranger says Stiles’s name, Derek looks up at the man in question. But then he notices the two others – <em>really</em> notices the others – and suddenly he is pushing the woman in his arms at Lydia, surging forward to be between them and the people at the door, and <em>roaring</em> with red eyes and sharp fangs.</p><p>“Derek!” the woman next to Lydia shouts, aghast. “Stop it –”</p><p>“Why are they here?” Derek growls, voice low and rasping in a way that makes Lydia’s hair stand on end.</p><p>She is not the only one who reacts. Stiles’s forearm flexes – there is a brief glint of something from beneath his shirtsleeve – and of fucking <em>course</em> Stilinski is armed.</p><p>“Derek,” Lydia says quietly, her tone full of warning.</p><p>“Why did you <em>bring them here?</em>” Derek roars at Stiles.</p><p>Though the lanky man behind him flinches, Stiles stands his ground, even in the face of a snarling alpha werewolf. Stiles must have experience with werewolves, then, or a death wish – or perhaps those things are not exclusive.</p><p>Stiles opens his mouth, but the woman next to Lydia beats him to it. “Derek, back off –”</p><p>“<em>Cora</em>,” Derek interrupts harshly, and – <em>and</em> –</p><p>Lydia stares at the woman beside her, at her hazel eyes and the bump in the ridge of her thin nose, and <em>fucking shit</em>, Cora Hale is alive and breathing an arm’s length away from Lydia.</p><p>“Don’t you dare shout at her,” the blonde woman snaps. The man next to her puts a placating hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs him off. “Isaac and I ran halfway up the state with your sister –”</p><p>“Erica,” Isaac says.</p><p>“– and we would have done it even if we had known her not-dead brother was <em>you</em> of all people.”</p><p>Lydia’s mind whirs in the tense silence. She has known Derek for seven years, now, and since that night when he fell onto her smoldering campfire and was too exhausted to even roll off the glowing coals, they have not spent a single day apart from each other. So Erica and Isaac – whom Derek knows, and who so obviously know him – must have been from before that time. There is only so much Lydia knows of Derek’s life before she became part of it, but she is pretty certain she knows the huge things: the fire, Kate and Laura’s deaths, Peter’s resurrection and death, and –</p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p>“Get out,” Derek finally snarls, an extra surge of alpha power in his voice.</p><p>Stiles looks at Cora, who nods her head tightly, and Stiles takes that as his cue to go. Erica and Isaac resist, looking resentful and, on Erica’s part, angry, but they nonetheless turn and retreat. They <em>have</em> to – after all, pack allegiances be damned, the connection between werewolves and the alpha who bit them never dies.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>“I am really so, so sorry,” Stiles says for the hundredth time.</p><p>Isaac still musters a small, reassuring smile for him, but Erica gave up tact on the tenth apology. She rolls her eyes, swirling a chip in the fresh guacamole Stiles just whipped up. “It’s not your fault, Stiles,” she says, annoyed.</p><p>The rational side of Stiles acknowledges that she is right. There is legitimately no way he could have known that the other members of Cora’s pseudo-pack were bitten by the same alpha, that that alpha was Derek, that Derek was a damn shitty alpha who abandoned newly bitten betas, and that Derek would have reacted to Erica and Isaac – well, like <em>that</em>. But all the rationality in the world will not make Stiles’s guilt budge.</p><p>The three of them are in Stiles’s kitchen, where they have been since leaving Cora at Whittemore Bakery. Stiles’s house is in no shape for hosting, what with construction and refinishing materials everywhere, but a guilty Stiles means a Stiles who shoves homemade food at the problem until it goes away, so with the werewolves’ help, he shoves all of the painting materials to one side of the kitchen and covers the rest in enough homemade Mexican food to feed an entire pack a three-course meal.</p><p>Perhaps, when he had been grocery shopping, Stiles had been too optimistic about all of this having a happy ending.</p><p>“I didn’t think he was going to be such an asshole,” Stiles bites out, folding a burrito too aggressively. The tortilla splits, spilling its innards, and Stiles sends a silent prayer over to Melissa, who finally joined Scott and the Argents on the East Coast four months ago. <em>Sorry for mistreating abuela’s food. I’m just so </em>mad.</p><p>He looks up when he hears laughter. Isaac is giggling at Stiles’s burrito, but Erica’s laughter is more hollow. “Oh, we would have known,” she says.</p><p>Stiles wraps another burrito, successfully this time, and passes it to Isaac. “What happened to you with Derek?”</p><p>Isaac and Erica share a look that tells Stiles he should not push this subject for long. “I don’t want to get into the specifics of it,” Erica eventually answers. “In short, he’s an asshole with no leadership qualities and doesn’t deserve to be an alpha.”</p><p>Isaac slurps a hunk of shredded chicken like a noodle, and Stiles has to restrain an inappropriately timed urge laugh. “He stuck around for a bit,” Isaac hesitantly concedes, and Erica rolls her eyes like she and Isaac have had this conversation many times before.</p><p>“Yeah, for a month with me, and two <em>weeks</em> with you.”</p><p>Stiles frowns. “How did you learn how to … you know. Be a werewolf?”</p><p>Stiles’s first personal experience with werewolves was when Scott was bitten in junior year by a rogue alpha. Even with his and the Argent’s combined knowledge, it had taken <em>months</em> for Scott to fully anchor and control himself. Part of the challenge was that Laverton and the other towns in their county did not have a resident pack; if that had been the case, Scott could have sought out that pack’s alpha, for help from an actual werewolf and not an ex-hunter, the ex-hunter’s daughter, and the ex-hunter’s protege.</p><p>“We got lucky,” Erica says, holding out her hand to Isaac. He takes it with a squeeze, and they smile at each other. “On Isaac’s first full moon, we ran into each other.”</p><p>“<em>Literally</em>.”</p><p>“And pack recognizes pack.”</p><p>Isaac lets go of Erica to resume picking at his burrito. “Derek did teach us a few things. Like anchors.”</p><p>“And to not trust people who smell like gunmetal.”</p><p>“<em>You</em> smell like gunmetal.”</p><p>The last is directed at Stiles, and Stiles chokes on his food in his rush to respond. “I do?” Erica and Isaac nod in unison. “But you still trust me?”</p><p>“Not at first,” Isaac admits.</p><p>“But you brought us Cora, and she talks about you like she’d trust you with her life.”</p><p>Stiles arches an eyebrow. “That easily?” he asks, somewhat joking.</p><p>He does not expect the hardening of Erica’s expression. “Not easily,” she counters. “Do you know how little Cora Hale trusts?”</p><p>Stiles sobers. He thinks of Colorado mountains and of dried alpha blood itching his skin, and his heart clenches for the girl who is nearly his age. “Yeah,” he softly tells the two betas in his messy kitchen. “I think I do.”</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>They finish dinner, and after spending an hour or two working on refinishing the detached garage, Stiles tells Erica and Isaac that he has to run a few errands and that they should get some sleep. He offers the two betas his bed, they decline, and he offers again, until Stiles is worried he and Isaac are going to be trapped in a nice-off over who is taking the ratty couch versus the less-ratty mattress for the night. Luckily, Erica breaks it with a signature eye-roll, pulling Isaac by the wrist to Stiles’s room and shouting, “Thanks, Stiles!” over Isaac’s protests.</p><p>It is near midnight when Stiles finally pulls out in the Jeep with a small pile of dirtied towels and clothing in his passenger’s seat. He had not completely lied to Isaac and Erica when he said he had errands – laundry is an errand, right? But he purposefully did not tell them about his plan to stake out Whittemore Bakery, just to see with his own two eyes that Cora is okay.</p><p>He decides to take the long way into town, following the twists and turns of Birch Street until it dead-ends at Puckett Road. Puckett will carry him farther north, so he can loop back around on Main Street and therefore have a better chance of going undetected. For a moment, Derek’s angry, wolfed-out face flashes in Stiles’s mind, and Stiles suppresses a shudder. The last time he saw werewolf eyes that shade of red, he had barely escaped with his life. How was he supposed to know that the cave a faery had chased him into was actually the secret den of the local pack’s alpha?</p><p>Stiles is so consumed by memories that he almost misses the bullet when it whizzes over the hood of the Jeep.</p><p>He slams on his breaks and kills his engine. His ears take a moment to adjust to the silence, but then he hears it: human shouts, coming from the woods, interspersed with the occasional gunshot. “Fuck,” Stiles mutters, even as he restarts the engine and throws the Jeep into drive again.</p><p>Stiles was trained by a hunter, which means he knows the hunters’ guiding philosophy – the Code – like the back of his hand. It also means that he knows the disgustingly high rate at which hunters throw their precious Code to the wind when it suits their personal intentions. When traveling from case to case and project to project, Stiles has made a habit of sticking his nose into hunter business when he comes across it, just to check the Code is being followed. If it is not and if he has the time, he usually runs a little interference. Sure, Stiles has made enemies in the hunter network, but they are usually evil assholes, so Stiles does not lose sleep over it.</p><p>The woods are eerily quiet as Stiles moves into them. Of course, the shouts and the gunshots are still ringing, but underneath that, there are no hoots or chirps or other natural sounds. Even the trees seem to be rustling less, and Stiles flexes his fingers around his gun. Each bullet in his baby is loaded with a different type of herb meant to impair a different supernatural creature. If the herb does not match the creature – well, bullet holes are nevertheless a bitch to deal with.</p><p>Suddenly, coming from the right, the sound of undergrowth being disturbed approaches too loudly and too quickly to be made by something human. Stiles swivels, gun up and at the ready. Whatever is approaching is panicking, not even attempting to be stealthy, and the human shouts are also getting louder. A bullet imbeds itself in a tree to Stiles’s left. He grits his teeth – the crashing gets louder –</p><p>A broad-shouldered black man bursts into view, eyes burning gold. He sees Stiles and drops to the ground, exposing the back of his blood-soaked gray t-shirt with navy block lettering –</p><p><em>Beacon Hills Police Department</em>.</p><p>Stiles lowers his gun and squats to be eye-level with the man. “Deputy Boyd?”</p><p>“Stilinski,” Boyd rasps through his fangs, “Get <em>out</em> –”</p><p>Stiles does not even have to ask the hunters what they are doing; his gut instinct screams that the man who he had seen wearing a BHPD uniform too many times to count could not have possibly broken a code. “Not without you, buddy,” Stiles says and grabs Boyd by the arm.</p><p>The bullets flying in their direction become more concentrated. Stiles pushes Boyd ahead of him, keeping low. “My Jeep is parked on the side of the road, key in ignition,” Stiles whispers urgently, knowing that Boyd can hear him regardless. “Take it and go a half-mile back down Puckett.”</p><p>“But you –”</p><p>“<em>Go</em>. And stay low.”</p><p>Stiles shoves him one more time and pops to his feet to run noisily in a large loop to the right, deeper into the woods. He is not as large as Boyd by a long shot, but by nature of being human, he is not as nimble and stealthy as Boyd can be. Stiles bets that if he makes enough of a racket, he can get the hunters to follow him, and he <em>knows</em> he is faster than them. Hunters are not usually state cross-country and track champions who subsist on caffeine and adrenaline.</p><p>Stiles flicks his safety on before shoving his gun into the front pocket of his hoodie. He wishes he were wearing his shoulder holster, but beggars cannot be choosers, and his flimsy cover-up of “I’m just doing a little nighttime woods run” is marginally more convincing without a gun. He also wishes that that bigoted hunter in Oregon had not gotten lucky with his knife a couple weeks ago, but Stiles thinks the DIY-stitches on his side should hold, even if Melissa McCall would gripe about unnecessary scar tissue if she ever got to see it.</p><p>There is a bullet or two that is close enough to scare Stiles into putting on a burst of speed, but by the time he is about a quarter mile out, according to the time on his wristwatch and his relative sense of pacing, the bullets have stopped firing as frequently; he has left the hunters far enough behind that they are not certain enough of his position to risk wasting bullets. Stiles keeps going, however, pushing deeper into the woods for another quarter mile before abruptly stopping, pivoting in the direction that he thinks is towards Puckett Road, and walking slowly so that he is quiet and can cover his tracks.</p><p>When it feels safe enough, Stiles picks up to a jog, and he reaches Puckett Road – thank God he picked the right direction – within fifteen minutes. It is another five minutes along the road before he sees his Jeep, half-off the road and with the lights off.</p><p>The silence of the night and the weakness of the streetlights suddenly make Stiles’s spine tingle. For all that he can be a man of intellect and logic, Stiles also listens to his gut, because 95% of the time, his gut is <em>right</em>. Right now, his gut is telling him something is very, very wrong.</p><p>Stiles peers through the driver’s window; Boyd is not in the either of the front seats. Stiles opens the door, squinting as if that will help him see better in the dark. “Boyd?”</p><p>A groan, weak and barely audible, from the back seat.</p><p>Stiles curses and fumbles for his phone. He turns on the flashlight, hitting Boyd directly in the face, and he would apologize except Boyd’s eyes are closed, and –</p><p>Black blood oozes from a bullet wound on his left shoulder. <em>Wolfsbane</em>.</p><p>Stiles scrambles into the drivers seat, the leather squeaking beneath his knees as he twists and reaches to smack Boyd’s cheeks. “Deputy Boyd, come on, dude, wake up – you gotta wake up –”</p><p>Boyd moans again, a sound so small and weak for a man so large. Stiles thinks it is a coincidence, until something suddenly illuminates in the back seat. Stiles lunges for it, grabbing the cell phone that Boyd had unlocked with a push of his thumb. “Boyd, you handsome genius son of a gun,” Stiles says. Boyd does not respond, but Stiles is slightly less worried, because he recognizes the name on the contact that Boyd has already pulled up on his phone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>III.</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Lydia gets the call during another two-in-the-morning laundromat trip. She finishes folding the blouse she has in her hands before checking her phone. “Shit,” she whispers and immediately answers. “Boyd? What’s –”</p><p>“So he <em>is</em> a werewolf.”</p><p>“Who is this?” Lydia demands, although she already has a sneaking suspicion of the answer.</p><p>“Stiles.” Of course. “Do you have any wolfsbane?”</p><p>“Why do you need wolfsbane?”</p><p>“Oh, my God, we don’t have time for – Look. Boyd has been shot and he’s going to bleed out in my car if I don’t get him to Whittemore Bakery <em>stat</em>, but if you don’t have wolfsbane –”</p><p>Lydia’s heartbeat and thoughts start going wild. Wolfsbane means hunters, and if these hunters are bold enough to go after a known member of BHPD –</p><p>She cuts off her own train of thought. “Not the bakery. Take him to 13 Cuttlebuck Lane. I’ll meet you there.”</p><p>She hangs up, throws all of her belongings into her hamper, and rushes back home.</p><p>There is no point in bothering Derek. Since the incident earlier in the evening, Derek has been cloistered with his sister in his room, and given how shaken Derek had been earlier, there is no way he is in any condition to be near Stiles. Besides, wolfsbane is in Lydia’s area of pack responsibilities. Derek would only get in the way.</p><p>Lydia has long mastered the art of rushing around noiselessly, so Derek cannot possibly know something is wrong until the Camaro’s tires screech as Lydia pulls out of their back driveway. Even then, with Cora as his main focus, he might not care enough to go after Lydia or to even sense that something has happened to Boyd.</p><p>The drive to Boyd’s is short with no traffic and fear hammering in her heart. A powder blue Jeep already sits in Boyd’s driveway, headlights pointing toward the road. Lydia sloppily parks the Camaro and runs out with her wolfsbane kit, ears peeled for any unusual noises. The answering silence is too heavy to be as reassuring as it should be.</p><p>When she rounds the corner of the Jeep she first sees Boyd laid out in the trunk, passed out with his shirt cut off, and then Stiles, who paces and tugs at his hair. “Thank <em>fuck</em>,” he exhales when he sees Lydia. His t-shirt has massive sweat stains, from his armpits to his lower back, interspersed with bloodstains so dark they looked black – Boyd’s wolfsbane-poisoned blood for sure.</p><p>“Bullet?” she asks, already balancing her kit on the Jeep’s back bumper and opening it.</p><p>Stiles reaches into the trunk and produces a bloodied slug. It is still mostly packed with the herb, enough that Lydia can identify the strain by sight alone. Finding its match in her kit, lighting it, and pressing it into Boyd’s wound are simple tasks if only because they are depressingly familiar.</p><p>Stiles paces up until she is at the last step, when he watches attentively as the ashes spark purple against black blood and Boyd’s dark skin. The strong floodlights above Boyd’s garage – Lydia belatedly realizes Stiles might have been pacing to keep them activated – make it possible to see the black poison leaving Boyd’s veins, disappearing from the site of the wound and then where it has branched out. Boyd sighs and shuffles his weight, still unconscious, and resettles with what looks like slightly more comfort.</p><p>Lydia looks up at Stiles. There is no surprise, no shock in his expression, and Lydia wonders for the thousandth time just how much Stiles has seen and done, especially for someone who still looks so young.</p><p>He tears his watchful gaze away from Boyd to meet Lydia’s eyes. “Thank you,” he says.</p><p>“Why are you here?” Lydia blurts.</p><p>Stiles blinks. He glances at Boyd’s garage, at the man himself, and says, “Uh, I’d leave, but Deputy Boyd is still in –”</p><p>“No,” Lydia interrupts. She repacks her kit so her hands have something to do. “Why did you come to Beacon Hills?”</p><p>Stiles shrugs and leans against his car. “I’ve heard some things about it and thought I’d check it out.”</p><p>“What things?”</p><p>Another shrug. “Insular but kind community. A <em>delicious</em> local bakery.”</p><p>Lydia smiles despite herself. “Whittemore Bakery does not give discounts for flattery.”</p><p>Stiles grins. “Worth a shot.”</p><p>“Stiles. Why did you really come to Beacon Hills?”</p><p>Stiles rolls his head until it hits the Jeep with a thunk. Boyd’s floodlights emphasize the sharp lines of his throat and cheekbones. “Do you know why hunters stay a hundred miles clear of Beacon Hills?”</p><p>Boyd mumbles, unsettled, and Lydia takes his hand. He quiets instantly, rubbing his cheek against the sweatshirt that has been shoved under his head as a makeshift pillow. “Because of Melia,” Lydia answers.</p><p>“In part,” Stiles agrees.</p><p>“The other parts?”</p><p>“With the amount of supernatural shit that is attracted to and blows up here, you would have to be insane as a hunter to bother with this place.”</p><p>“So what makes you different?”</p><p>Stiles drops his head back down to fix her with a steady, neutral look. “Do I look like a hunter?”</p><p>“You look like a sleep-deprived grad student, but that doesn’t mean you’re not a hunter.”</p><p>Stiles shakes his head. “I’m not a hunter,” he says. “And I think it’s bullshit that supernatural havens only ever survive if they’re near a source of some major crazy-evil-magic magnet.”</p><p>Lydia actually laughs at that, because if Stiles is implying what Lydia believes he is implying, this man is ridiculous. “You think you can solve the Nemeton’s problems?”</p><p>“The Nemeton?”</p><p>“Yes, the <em>Nemeton</em>.” Lydia is baffled that Stiles could have lived in this town for two weeks without having heard about the Nemeton. “The largest and oldest tree in the preserve?”</p><p>“You’re making this sound like something I, the new guy, should know.”</p><p>“Stiles, that tree <em>radiates</em> darkness and strange vibes. You’d have to be human to not feel it.”</p><p>“I am human.”</p><p>So that answers a few of Lydia’s questions, though none of the more pressing. “It’s nice that you want to … help. But if even Melia can’t stop what it’s doing – and she knows that tree better than the back of her own hand – you don’t have a hope.”</p><p>She can see Stiles mull it over, his finger tapping against his chin as he stares unseeingly at the driveway. “Maybe,” he concedes after a long silence. “Or maybe I have even better chances, <em>because</em> I don’t know this tree at all.”</p><p>His expression is so resolute, so determined, that Lydia, for a moment, feels the infectiousness of his optimism. But then she unthinkingly inhales, and she is reminded of where she is. She can sense in the air and in the ground beneath her feet a cloying darkness, a subtle force that constantly beckons to the parts of her that act more on instinct than rational thought.</p><p>It becomes too much to keep looking at Stiles, so Lydia turns to Boyd, reaching out with her other hand to press a palm to her pack mate’s forehead. Hope is dangerous, Lydia knows, but at the same time –</p><p>“Maybe,” Lydia tells Stiles, because some small part of her admits that she does not want Stiles Stilinski to be broken like so many of the rest of them have been.</p><p>The Jeep’s back bumper sinks, and Lydia flicks her gaze to where Stiles has sat down across from her. “So,” he says amicably, “What do you think of the local library? Have you ever seen the town archives there?”</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Boyd eventually wakes enough to walk into his house with minimal help from Stiles and Lydia. Lydia does not feel safe leaving Boyd alone for the rest of the night – the morning, really – so she sees Stiles off and then curls up on the couch beneath the quilt that was hand-sewn by Boyd’s great-grandmother.</p><p>Yet her dreams have her gasping awake only an hour later, her lungs burning with the sense memory of drowning and of violent fingertips digging into her shoulders. She flings her arms into the space around her, searching for Derek’s reassuring weight, but then she remembers that she is at Boyd’s – she remembers water bubbling past her ears – a quilt tangled in her legs – mud on her knees –</p><p>Lydia does not know how she manages it, but the quilt somehow ends up on the floor, and she reaches down to squeeze the pinkie toe of her left foot. “One,” she whispers, vocal chords strained. She slides her fingers to her fourth toe. “Two.”</p><p>Over and over, from left to right and then right to left, both feet in one go and then one at a time, she counts to ten. Ten toes. She can feel each and every one of her ten toes, and each toe feels the pressure exerted by her fingers. By the time the sun has risen and Boyd is puttering around his kitchen to make breakfast, Lydia nearly feels human again.</p><p>When the coffee maker trills a happy little sound Lydia gets off the couch and goes to the kitchen. Boyd looks no worse for wear – werewolf healing is enviable – and he smiles at Lydia as he hands her a small bowl of fruit. “Thanks for staying,” he says.</p><p>Lydia nods. She wonders if Boyd knows yet about Cora – her being here, her being alive, even her existence. But that is less important right now. “What happened last night?”</p><p>Boyd shakes his head. “You know the bird’s nest in that elm tree out back?”</p><p>“Yes,” Lydia says, stopping short of reminding Boyd that he updates her about those baby birds at least twice a week.</p><p>“One of the babies had fallen out of the nest,” Boyd continues. “And when I was putting it back I heard a gunshot.”</p><p>“So you decided to check it out instead of, I don’t know, calling <em>the police?</em>” Lydia asks, bitingly sarcastic to cover the worried that gnaws at the back of her mind.</p><p>“I am the police.”</p><p>“You were off duty!”</p><p>Boyd looks like he is about to argue, but then he actually looks at Lydia, and something in her expression must make him drop it. “Anyway. Turns out it was hunters. They came after me, I was lucky enough to run into Stiles.”</p><p>Boyd cracks an egg a little too sharply, and yolk splatters across the counter. Lydia watches as he wets a cloth and cleans the mess, mumbling a curse or two under his breath. His shoulders are uncharacteristically tense, and –</p><p>“Boyd?” Lydia asks softly.</p><p>He looks up, brown eyes worried under knotted eyebrows, and Lydia’s chest aches. “I’m glad you found Stiles,” Lydia says. His frown deepens, but before he can say anything, Lydia continues, “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s stupid. It was you, alone and unprepared, against a whole group of hunters.”</p><p>“How am I supposed to protect Beacon Hills when I can’t even protect myself?”</p><p>“It doesn’t <em>matter</em>. Because when you’re protecting Beacon Hills, it’s not just yourself. It’s the department, and Melia and Danny, and Derek and me. Okay?”</p><p>Boyd’s lips twitch, but he does not reply, and Lydia backs down, satisfied. Boyd will mull it over for a few days and eventually accept that Lydia is right. She has always preferred arguing with Boyd to arguing with Derek for a reason.</p><p>“I’m going in to make my statement before my shift starts,” Boyd eventually says.</p><p>“I can drive you.”</p><p>They spend the drive to the station mocking the CD collection Boyd digs out of the back of the glove compartment; apparently Derek used to listen to The Dixie Chicks and Fleetwood Mac in addition to classical music. The conversation is distracting enough that Lydia does not feel the weight at the back of her head until she is parking, and she can even offer a real smile to Parrish when they walk through the door and he looks up from the front desk.</p><p>“Miss Martin, Boyd,” Parrish says.</p><p>Lydia instantly knows something is wrong. The only time Parrish forgets his manners enough to not say <em>good morning</em> is when he is truly disturbed.</p><p>“Jordan,” Boyd says. “I thought Sammy was supposed to be on desk this morning?”</p><p>Parrish shakes his head, his lips a tight line of worry. His green eyes flicker to Lydia before he tells Boyd, “I’ll fill you in when you’re on duty.” In other words, once Lydia has left. “I hear you got shot?”</p><p>“Are you taking my statement?”</p><p>“No, Shivam will. He’s in the back.”</p><p>Boyd nods and turns to Lydia. “I’ll be fine,” he tell her, reassuring the worries that she refuses to let cross her lips, and Lydia squeezes his arm gratefully. Boyd kisses her forehead before heading for the back of the station.</p><p>Parrish has already returned to the file open before him on the desk, and that is also strange – it is not like Parrish to forget there is another person in the room. Despite herself, Lydia takes a couple steps forward and asks, “Are you all right?”</p><p>Parrish looks up, and a pang of something – <em>sympathy?</em> – strikes softly in Lydia’s chest. She has never seen the bags under his eyes this dark and deep, nor has she ever seen his smile look this forced, and dread weighs at the base of Lydia’s spine.</p><p>“Things are getting worse,” she says more than asks.</p><p>His somber expression is answer enough. “Take care, Miss Martin,” he says.</p><p>Lydia leaves, and she can feel his eyes on her until the Camaro is out of sight of the front doors.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>The tree, for all that it is allegedly sickly and evil, looks gorgeous. The Nemeton must be well over a hundred years old, if the girth of its trunk is any indication, and its proud branches twist and arch high into the blue sky of a gorgeous Northern California summer morning. Pinpricks of light shoot down through the negative space between vibrant green leaves, and Stiles feels like a small, inept human in the best way possible.</p><p>“So what does it smell like?” Stiles asks. He presses his fingers against the Nemeton’s trunk, relishing in the sensation of textured bark digging into his skin. “Leaves? Maple syrup? Toe-cheese funk?”</p><p>Someone snorts, and Stiles looks over in time to catch Erica wrinkling her nose and Isaac giving him a strange look. “Scott never nailed the whole identifying scents thing, okay?” Stiles says defensively. “I’m stuck with the lingo he provided me.”</p><p>“Death and decay,” Erica says.</p><p>“So, like your laundry,” Isaac quips.</p><p>He gets an elbow to the gut, and next thing Stiles knows, Erica and Isaac are tumbling around in the dirt, growling more than using actual words. It seems playful, so Stiles ignores them in favor of assessing the tree. Healthy green leaves, but the scent of death and decay. “Not even remotely contradictory,” Stiles mutters to himself.</p><p>He starts walking around the tree, hands skimming the bark and eyes roving up and down in search of … something. Anything. <em>And this is when it would be useful to have a witch on speed dial</em>, Stiles muses. He could go to Melia, he supposes, but if a witch as powerful as Melia has not already dealt with the Nemeton’s sickness, what good can going to her do?</p><p>“Stiles!” Erica shouts.</p><p>Stiles peeks around the tree’s trunk. Isaac and Erica have stopped wrestling, Isaac on the ground with one of Erica’s boots pressed into his neck, but both are paying more attention to something in the woods. Stiles follows their gaze.</p><p>Within a minute, Stiles can make out between the trees a figure approaching – two figures, he realizes, dressed in the beige uniforms of the BHPD. Stiles squints, trying to identify exactly who the officers are, and he feels more than sees Erica and Isaac stand up and come closer to him. They stop when they are a few paces away from him, standing between him and the officers. Interesting, how quickly they have come to be defensive Stiles; Cora’s good word must hold immense weight with them.</p><p>“Mr. Stilinski?” one of the officers calls.</p><p>“Deputy Parrish!” Stiles calls back, relieved. “The name’s Stiles. Mr. Stilinski is my father.”</p><p>Stiles’s easy tone must make Erica and Isaac relax, because they do not try to stop him when he walks between them to approach Parrish. Following Parrish is Boyd, and a quick scan up and down reveals no sign of the events of last night. “Deputy Boyd,” Stiles says, “Holding up all right?”</p><p>“Please, Stiles,” Boyd says, “You helped me big time last night. You can call me Boyd.”</p><p>“No first name?” Stiles jokes.</p><p>“Nobody gets to know Boyd’s first name,” Parrish says.</p><p>Erica makes a noise, as if she is interested in testing that statement, and Stiles remembers himself. “Oh! Sorry – Deputy Parrish, Boyd, this is Erica and Isaac. Erica and Isaac, Deputies Jordan Parrish and – Boyd.”</p><p>“What are you all doing out by the Nemeton?” Parrish asks.</p><p>Erica and Isaac look to Stiles, who shrugs. “Lydia mentioned it last night, thought I’d check it out.”</p><p>Parrish turns to Boyd, and they have a short conversation consisting of eyebrow twitches and grimaces. “We recommend that you stay clear of the Nemeton for a while,” Parrish eventually says.</p><p>Stiles narrows his eyes. There is nothing particularly tense about the two deputies, nothing that screams, <em>We’re hiding things from you, quite possibly for ulterior motives!</em> But at the same time, Stiles <em>knows</em> small towns, having grown up in Laverton. When outsiders cross the line, there is no telling what the consequences might be.</p><p>Erica, apparently, is less acquainted with the small town custom of gentle dancing around a topic to get the information you want. “Why should we?” she demands.</p><p>“There’s been another sacrifice,” Boyd answers in that steadying tone of his.</p><p>“Another human sacrifice?” Stiles asks.</p><p>A wind suddenly blows through the trees. Boyd’s eyes flash gold, and Erica and Issac’s must do the same, going by Parrish’s reaction. “How about we start walking back?” Parrish suggests.</p><p>Stiles falls in with Parrish, with Erica and Isaac close behind them and Boyd bringing up the rear. “Do you think it’s the same person as the last one?”</p><p>“This case isn’t open to the public, Stiles.”</p><p>“Wait,” Stiles says, realizing, “You didn’t actually confirm it was another <em>human</em> sacrifice.”</p><p>Parrish looks pressed and ready to start panicking. It is a look Stiles is familiar with, because his father spent a few years wearing it when Stiles first started doggedly nosing into his cases. The day that that panic and worry turned to resignation, Stiles almost wept, for more than one reason.</p><p>“If it wasn’t a human sacrifice, it was animal or supernatural. And an animal sacrifice wouldn’t have you and Boyd this freaked, freaked enough to be herding people away from the Nemeton when the tree isn’t even a crime scene –”</p><p>“She was sixteen,” Parrish says quietly. Stiles shuts up. “They found her in the river, lungs full of water and throat slashed nearly in half.”</p><p>“Jordan,” Boyd warns.</p><p>Parrish clamps his mouth shut, jaw tight.</p><p>The trees suddenly give away to a road, where a BHPD cruiser is parked right behind the Jeep. Erica and Isaac head for Stiles’s car, but Stiles turns heel to face Boyd. “There’s a river that runs nearly parallel to Puckett Road,” Stiles blurts. “Do you think the hunters –”</p><p>“Stiles,” Boyd says firmly. “Don’t worry, okay? The department is handling it.”</p><p>In other words, <em>Stay out of it</em>. Four little words that have never deterred Stiles before.</p><p>Now that they are standing closer, Stiles can give Boyd a proper once-over. There is truly no visual evidence of the wounds and blood from last night, not even bags under his eyes, though Stiles will bet that Boyd did not get much deep sleep between then and now. Werewolves might have the edge on physical healing, but when it comes to emotional and psychological damage – the things that will really keep you up at night – they are just as weak as humans.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Stiles asks.</p><p>Boyd smiles humorlessly. “I’ve healed,” he replies, which is not really an answer. Not in Stiles’s book, anyway.</p><p>For all intents and purposes, however, Boyd is a stranger, so Stiles settles for nodding, waving to Parrish, and then climbing into his car.</p><p>Isaac immediately pokes his head out from the backseat. “Did you say hunt–”</p><p>Stiles shushes him, watching the cruiser in his rearview mirror. When it becomes apparent that the other car is waiting for Stiles to go, Stiles turns the key, flips the radio to high volume, and takes off down the road. “Yeah, I said hunters,” Stiles says quietly. He can barely hear himself, but that is fine – all that matters is that Erica and Isaac can hear him but Boyd cannot.</p><p>“Hunters?” Erica repeats, brown eyes blown wide.</p><p>Stiles sighs. “There are some things I need to catch you guys up on.”</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>It takes the drive to the grocery store, the shopping trip, and most of the drive back for Stiles to tell Erica and Isaac what happened last night and to answer their barrage of questions that follow. By the time Stiles rounds the curve before 181 Birch Street, he feels drained and more than ready for a short nap before he starts cooking dinner, but luck is not on his side today: sitting on his front step is Cora Hale.</p><p>Erica and Isaac barrel out of the Jeep before it has even come to a full stop, andonce Stiles has parked, he leaves the pseudo-pack to their reunion and starts carrying groceries to the kitchen. It takes multiple trips, because Stiles somehow forgot that werewolves consume a <em>fuck</em>ton, so he bought three times as much food as he usually would. No one goes hungry under a Stilinski roof, least of all guests.</p><p>He is about to make his last trip when Isaac appears in the kitchen, three full reusable shopping bags barely loading down one arm. “Cora wants to talk to you,” Isaac says.</p><p>She is waiting for him, still on the front step, when Stiles opens his front door. Erica is no where in sight; she probably followed Isaac inside the house through the garage. “Cora,” Stiles says, unsure of how to proceed.</p><p>Cora surprises him by standing and wrapping him in a warm hug. “Thank you,” she whispers in his ear, and Stiles squeezes her.</p><p>“How are you? How is Derek?”</p><p>They sit down on the steps, Cora using his knees as an armrest. “I’m good, I think,” she says. “I still can’t believe this is real.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“I thought they were all dead, Stiles. All of them.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>She inhales deeply and rests her head on her arm. It takes all of Stiles’s will power to not bounce his leg and upset Cora’s position. “Derek is – I don’t know. It’s weird,” she says.</p><p>“Weird in what way?”</p><p>“He still smells like Derek, and like family. But he doesn’t feel like <em>pack</em>. And –” she laughs, and it sounds more like confusion than mirth.</p><p>Stiles gives into an urge to scratch Cora’s scalp. His mother used to do the same to him when he needed to relax, and to this day Stiles associates the gesture with the time <em>before</em>: before his mother was killed and half-eaten by a wendigo, before Stilesknocked down the Argents’ door and demanded that Chris take on Stiles as one last protege.</p><p>“I know it’s been literally more than a decade since I saw him,” Cora continues, “but – God, Stiles, I can still remember what he was like. He was an open book, even to strangers.”</p><p>“And now?”</p><p>Cora shakes her head and does not say anything.</p><p>The silence stretches on, and Stiles lets his thoughts wander. He tries to imagine reuniting with a previously-thought-dead family member after thirteen years of separation; he fails miserably. He tries to imagine being surprised by two living-and-breathing reminders of past personal fuck-ups and again fails miserably. Sure, Stiles can be an empathetic person, but his empathy has always seemed to be limited by his lived experiences, and nothing he has been through remotely amounts to what Derek and Cora have faced.</p><p>“Where is he right now?” Stiles asks.</p><p>“Derek? Checking on his beta, he said.”</p><p>“And are you staying with him again, tonight?”</p><p>Cora sits up, and Stiles drops his hand from her hair. “I – I would, but I also miss Erica and Isaac. And they’re <em>pack</em>.”</p><p>“Then stay here.”</p><p>She shakes her head. “I know you barely have room for yourself here –”</p><p>“Just for now,” Stiles insists. “We can find another place for you three soon, okay? For as long as you want to stay here.”</p><p>Cora chews on her lip, something shifting in her expression, and Stiles braces himself for news that could throw a wrench in his future plans. “I need to talk to them,” Cora says quietly, tilting her head towards the house – towards Erica and Isaac – and continues, “but I think I want to stay here forever.”</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Derek has never thought that he is a good alpha, okay? From the moment his claws tore through Peter’s throat and he felt the instant rush of power run through his veins, not once has Derek harbored the delusion that he would be a good alpha. He was not raised for it and was not made for it, and he no longer even has high expectations of himself as a person. Sure, he used to hope that he could become a good alpha, but that hope eventually also become a delusion, one that Derek abandoned years ago while fleeing towards Beacon Hills.</p><p>Acknowledging this truth, however, is entirely different from calmly accepting reminders of it, and lately, reminders have been coming nonstop from the one and only Stiles Stilinski.</p><p>Derek already knows that Stiles was here at Boyd’s last night, thanks to a text update Derek had received from Lydia this morning, yet he is not prepared for how heavy that combination of coffee and gunmetal would still be more than twelve hours later. It is most concentrated at the back end of Boyd’s driveway, a patch of hardtop near the door of the single-bay garage.</p><p>There is the creak of hinges, and Derek steps back from the garage door to see Lydia giving him an annoyed look from Boyd’s front porch. “Boyd says you’ve been here for ten minutes,” she says curtly before disappearing back into the house, leaving the door ajar.</p><p>Derek follows her inside, to where his two pack members are finishing a simple dinner of salad and pork chops in the kitchen. “How are you?” Derek asks Boyd.</p><p>“Healed.”</p><p>Which, yes, Derek could already tell as much from the lack of blood or wolfsbane in the air, but he was hoping for more than that in Boyd’s response. Derek should really know better than to hope for anything.</p><p>“Where’s Cora?” Lydia asks.</p><p>Another reminder. “Stilinski’s,” Derek replies begrudgingly. Because his sister <em>trusts</em> the man who brought Erica and Isaac back into Derek’s life and who keeps butting into Derek’s pack to take better care of them than Derek ever has –</p><p>“Cora?” Boyd echoes, confused.</p><p>Lydia fixes Derek with a glare, and Derek has a half-second to look guilty for his terrible communication skills before Lydia answers for him. “Derek’s younger sister. We didn’t know she was alive, but Stiles met her last year and made the connection.”</p><p>Boyd whistles low, surprised and impressed, and Derek bristles. They were doing fine before Stiles step foot in Beacon Hills; who is he to burst in and start trying to <em>fix</em> things?</p><p>“He’s sharp,” Boyd says. “Wheedled information out of Jordan and made connections the department hadn’t made within a couple minutes.”</p><p>“I want to keep him,” Lydia declares.</p><p>“What does he even do? I don’t think he’s working anywhere in town.”</p><p>Lydia shrugs. “I want to keep him,” she repeats.</p><p>“No,” Derek growls.</p><p>Lydia and Boyd turn to him, Boyd placid but Lydia ready for a fight. “You need to pull your head out of your ass,” Lydia snaps.</p><p>She pauses, as if expecting Derek to interrupt, but Derek clenches his jaw and says nothing.</p><p>“Whether or not he knew who Erica and Isaac were, he still brought Cora to you, he saved Boyd’s <em>life</em>, and he has nothing but good intentions toward Beacon Hills. So if you want to keep hating him like an immature, grudge-holding child for something he can’t even be rightfully blamed for, go ahead. But don’t try to stop me and Boyd from talking to him. Boyd and I are adults, and we can handle ourselves.”</p><p>And now his own pack is siding with Stiles over Derek. God, Derek is the worst alpha to ever walk the face of this planet.</p><p>“Fine,” Derek tells Lydia through gritted teeth, and though she has technically won, she does not look that happy about it.</p><p>That business taken care of for the moment, Derek turns to Boyd. “When does the station want me to come in?”</p><p>“Tomorrow morning, if you can. Melia can come in around ten.”</p><p>Derek glances at Lydia, and it is like she was not even yelling at him thirty seconds ago. “I can manage the bakery,” she offers, and Derek nods, a lump in his throat.</p><p>Derek is a shitty alpha, and he does not deserve the people who have stuck around to be in his pack.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>After seven years, Derek has grown intimately familiar with the small conference room of the Beacon Hills Police Department. It always smells vaguely of bad coffee and stale doughnuts, and there is a pipe behind the north-most wall that rattles softly whenever the AC is on. Melia sits on the swivel chair with dark green upholstery; Derek takes the wooden stool whose four legs are never the same length, no matter how many times Derek or one of the deputies tries to fix it. Anywhere between one and three officers will join him and Melia at the hardwood table said to have been carved from a single large tree that came from near the center of Beacon Hills.</p><p>Derek’s presence at these meetings have always been more of a formality than anything else. Traditionally, packs have been acknowledged and respected as protectors of their territory, but with Derek’s pack so small, there is not much they can effectively do in the name of defending Beacon Hills from threats within and without. Melia, with her wisdom and power, is the true guardian of Beacon Hills. Yet werewolf packs have historically held more territorial power than witches, and there is also power to be gained in evoking tradition, so Melia has insisted from day one that Derek also be included in these meetings.</p><p>Today, there are four manila files spread out on the table between Melia and Derek, who sit on one side, and Jordan Parrish, who is on the other. Parrish looks like crap, haggard and sleep-deprived, but then again, most of the BHPD looks like that. Most officers have been working double-shifts, answering the heightened number of house calls (thanks to the Nemeton, everything that seems slightly strange warrants a heads-up to the police) and increasing patrols around the town.</p><p>“The first sacrifice was reported two weeks ago, in the next county over,” Parrish says, tapping the leftmost of the files. “Shivam has a friend working there and asked for information about any suspicious deaths when our first victim showed up. Their victim was Lorelai Jackson, human, twenty-six years old.”</p><p>Derek picks up one of several crime scene photos and passes it to Melia without a glance. The poor girl might be dead far before her time, but she is not from Beacon Hills, and in any case Melia is the actual witch who knows what to look for in searching for evidence.</p><p>“Our first victim was Max Coppersfield, human, fourteen years old,” Parrish continues. When he looks down at Max’s file, the smell of anger and frustration immediately radiates from his skin, but he shuts it down a second later, to Derek’s surprise. Derek knows few people who can compartmentalize and repress emotions that quickly. “Coppersfield was found in the woods on the north side of town, after his parents filed a missing person report.”</p><p>Again, Derek passes a photo to Melia, who sets down the first photo and sighs sadly at the image of a murdered teenager.</p><p>“The next victim was Annette Wong, a werefox, sixteen years old. Coroner put the victim’s time of death on the same night that Deputy Boyd was attacked.</p><p>“And lastly, Horace Wingate, a faery, sixty-four years old. Not from Beacon Hills, but the victim’s body was discovered in the preserve late last night. Coroner put time of death around four days ago.”</p><p>“This is so wrong,” Melia murmurs.</p><p>Derek and Parrish exchange a glance – it is not like Melia to state the obvious – but then she explains, “Even if you are screwed up enough to be sacrificing people for some reason, it’s customary to burn the bodies afterwards.”</p><p>“Why is that?” Parrish asks.</p><p>Melia shrugs. “To destroy evidence. To avoid looking at the horrific thing you’ve done. To use the entirety of the energy the victim offers.”</p><p>Parrish nods, scribbling on a note pad he has pulled from his breast pocket. “Anything else you can pick up from these photos?”</p><p>“They’re using rope rather than metal, wire, or zip-ties, so they’ve likely been trained in the traditional manner.”</p><p>“What does it mean, that they’re targeting supernaturals?” Derek asks.</p><p>Parrish defers to Melia with a glance, and she answers Derek, “More power. Supernaturals have a stronger connection to nature than humans – humans simply evolved away from it – so there’s more natural power to be gained.”</p><p>Derek holds back a scoff. <em>Natural</em> power is quite a name for the reward of an act so twisted and unnatural.</p><p>Parrish finishes writing and tucks his notepad away. “We don’t have many leads yet,” he admits. “But a few residents have reported sighting a stranger near the town lines, and since descriptions overlapped, we brought in Sammy’s sister to render a sketch.”</p><p>He pulls from beneath one of the folders a pencil sketch of a woman, maybe around Derek’s age or older, with dark hair, light eyes, and sharp eyebrows. Derek has never quite gotten the hang of translating sketch artist renderings to real life, but he nonetheless memorizes the face as best he can.</p><p>“As always,” Parrish says with a heavy exhale – Parrish must be seriously exhausted, Derek realizes, for his well-mannered composure to be breaking down like this – “the BHPD appreciates your help and asks that you please share with the department any information that might be relevant, no matter how tangential.”</p><p>It is a rote phrase that the given officer is required to recite at the end of one of these meetings; signal received, Derek stands up, as does Melia beside him. “Thank you, Jordan,” Melia says, as warmly as she can when her eyes are still glued to the images of murder victims.</p><p>“No, thank you for your time.”</p><p>Melia leaves, but Derek lingers, wanting to talk to Parrish. Parrish blearily reorganizes the files before him; it takes a moment for him to realize Derek is still there. “Derek!” he exclaims. “I’m sorry – lately, I’ve been so –” He breaks off with a sigh, lost for words.</p><p>“You need sleep,” Derek says gruffly. And where the hell did <em>that</em> come from? Of course what Derek said is true; Parrish is the textbook definition of sleep deprivation, right now. But since when did Derek care enough to dole out advice?</p><p>Parrish does not seem to notice the weirdness of Derek offering advice. “Can I help you with something?” the officer asks.</p><p>“That woman isn’t the only stranger on the town lines.”</p><p>Parrish tilts his head. “Are you referring to Stiles Stilinski?” Off Derek’s nod, Parrish continues, “The department will look into it.”</p><p>“‘<em>Will</em> –’? Stilinski moves into an isolated shack, and the bodies start showing up the <em>next</em> <em>day</em>,” Derek argues. Why has everyone in the town just taken to Stilinski when he is an outright stranger?</p><p>“Derek,” Parrish interjects. “We’re aware. And I promise you that we’re doing our jobs.”</p><p>The hardness that has crept into Parrish’s tone makes Derek back down. God, he has a special talent for pissing off people who are known for their easy calm. He should say something before he leaves – <em>I’m sorry</em> or <em>I know how hard you work</em> or even <em>Goodbye</em> – but the words catch in his throat, so Derek turns heel and walks out without looking back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>IV.</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Stiles should have sprung for the hardware store membership. This has to be his fourth visit in the last two weeks, he can now name every staff member without looking at their name tag, and he is really lucky he has not had to worry about his bank account for a while now. His high school self would have sobbed each time his total appeared on the register; his current self only winces, more out of conditioning than an actual emotional reaction to the dollar amount.</p><p>Today he is in search of industrial strength screws and a new drill bit, because while the rickety second-hand bed frame he bought in Portland is enough to hold him, it has been creaking and groaning under the weight of three werewolves these last few nights. Screws obtained, Stiles’s mind hops to dinner plans. He is probably going to have to swing by the grocery store again, he admits to himself as he turns the corner into the next aisle. And after the grocery store –</p><p>“Watch it!”</p><p>Stiles automatically jumps back, an elbow knocking into a display of electrical wiring. “Sorry! Sorry,” he blurts.</p><p>The couple he almost walked into stares at him, rather rudely, if Stiles does say so himself. The man who yelled has a hand on his hip, as if he is used to having a weapon holstered there, and the woman looks equal parts appalled, outraged, and murderous.</p><p>“My mistake, no harm, right?” Stiles continues, throwing up the palm of his free hand and beaming. <em>Look at how non-aggressive and non-threatening I am</em>, Stiles thinks. <em>I’m just a weak little human!</em></p><p>Neither of the other two looks like they are going to stop staring anytime soon, so Stiles backs out of the aisle. “Have a nice day!” he calls and then hustles to the checkout.</p><p>The day’s weirdness is not over yet, apparently; when Stiles reaches the parking lot, Deputy Parrish is leaning against a cruiser that is parked right next to Stiles’s Jeep. “Stiles,” he says, standing up straight. It does little to mask the exhaustion behind his eyes.</p><p>“Deputy Parrish,” Stiles says, popping his trunk. “Did you get run over by a truck or three?”</p><p>Parrish’s lip twitches, the only hint that he sees the humor in Stiles’s jibe. “Do you have a moment?”</p><p>“Yeah. What’s up?”</p><p>When Parrish does not answer right away, Stiles freezes in the rearranging of the crap in his trunk. “Deputy Parrish?”</p><p>Parrish’s face is pinched when he asks, “Do you mind coming down to the station to answer some questions?”</p><p>Stiles’s mind starts racing. He has not broken any laws yet – not in Beacon Hills, at least. Has he done anything that could be considered suspicious? Depends on who you ask (Scott would say, <em>Not at all, buddy</em>, but Chris and Allison would smack him with a laundry list of his slip-ups from the last week alone). Has anything suspicious been happening <em>around</em> Stiles?</p><p>Oh. Right. Sacrifices.</p><p>“Sure, I can come down,” Stiles says.</p><p>Stiles figures he is not in that much trouble when, at the station, Parrish herds him to a small conference room rather than a formal interview room. With its dark colors and well-worn furniture, the station reminds Stiles of the Laverton Police Department – of long hours playing with toy cars beneath his father’s deputy desk when he a child, of the unevenly stuffed couch in the break room where he slept for the first few weeks after his mother’s death, of the taste of burnt coffee and the glug of mid-2000s water coolers.</p><p>“We just have a few questions related to what you’ve been doing these past couple weeks,” Parrish says as he settles into the chair opposite Stiles at the table. Despite looking like hell, Parrish’s posture is impeccable, in a natural-looking way that Stiles has yet to master. Stiles briefly wonders if Parrish was ever military.</p><p>“Alibis for the sacrifices?” Stiles asks.</p><p>Parrish kind of just looks at him, his lips a flat line, so Stiles takes his answer to be <em>yes</em>. “What days and times?”</p><p>Parrish rattles off four dates with different timeframes for each. One night, Stiles was with Boyd and Lydia; another he was helping Cora, Erica, and Isaac arrange their travel plans to Beacon Hills; and the other two he was fixing up 181 Birch, alone, meaning it is not a solid alibi.</p><p>When Stiles finishes yammering, Parrish scribbles on his notepad for only a few seconds more before clicking his pen. “Thank you for your time, Stiles,” he says. “Do you have any questions for me?”</p><p>Stiles frowns, stomping down the urge to yank the notepad toward himself and read Parrish’s notes. “That’s it?”</p><p>“Did you expect more?”</p><p>“My dad’s a sheriff. I know that weak alibis lead to more questions.”</p><p>Parrish glances at the door and then leans forward, fixing Stiles with a gaze so intense Stiles cannot help leaning in, feeling like he is about to be let in on a secret. “Look,” Parrish says quietly. He gestures at his notepad, the conference room. “This is for the BHPD. I know it isn’t you.”</p><p>Stiles laughs to cover up how unsettling he finds Parrish’s confidence. Cops are not supposed to be so offhand with a possible suspect. “You trust your instincts that much?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Aren’t you human?”</p><p>“Aren’t you?” Parrish shoots back, which, touché. Stiles is all about listening to his gut.</p><p>“Also,” Parrish adds, “I wasn’t always human.”</p><p>And on <em>that</em> loaded note, Parrish escorts Stiles out of the conference room. Stiles’s mind is whirling so fast it is in danger of crashing, and though he does not remember how, he somehow makes it home with both him and his Jeep in one piece.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Four days of reading, researching, and brain-wracking later, Stiles still has no clue what can cause a person to either 1) change from supernatural to human or 2) be temporarily supernatural. The talk of the town insists Parrish is human, so Stiles figured he could swing by the Mahealani’s apothecary and very subtly wheedle some information out of Danny, who, Stiles has found, is generally nicer and less prone to setting things on fire than Melia is.</p><p>“What do you think of Deputy Parrish?” Stiles asked, leaning against Danny’s till and scratching at a groove in the wooden counter.</p><p>“People like him,” Danny replied.</p><p>“Do <em>you</em> like him?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“No, Danny. I mean, do you <em>like</em> him?”</p><p>Danny snorted. “Not my type.”</p><p>“Say I were to ask him on a date – you think he’d have any relatives of the supernatural persuasion who’d smite me or trap me in an unbreakable hand-fasting?”</p><p>At which point glass shattered in the back room, Melia started swearing like a sailor, and Danny ducked away with an apologetic smile.</p><p>So the only Beacon Hills resident left whom Stiles could comfortably consult is the man himself. Stiles doubts Parrish would want to elaborate any more, and besides, Stiles has not seen Parrish once in these last few days.</p><p>Another surprise development in Stiles’s life: while Stiles was at the BHPD, Erica cornered (an off-duty) Boyd in a coffeeshop, aggressively befriended him, and somehow wheedled out of him an invitation for her, Cora, and Isaac to move into his house.</p><p>“We’re not abandoning you,” Erica told Stiles, brown eyes large with earnestness.</p><p>“That’s not why I asked if <em>you’ll</em> be okay with it.”</p><p>“His house is so big and empty, Stiles, and you live in a shack.”</p><p>“<em>Thanks</em>.”</p><p>“Also, you deserve your bed back. Before we break it.”</p><p>So now Stiles is carrying cardboard boxes and reusable shopping bags from his Jeep, which is parked in Boyd’s driveway, to the second floor room that Erica, Isaac, and Cora will be sharing. The room is a bit cramped for three people, and though Boyd has a second spare room that could be made up, the pseudo-pack insisted on sharing.</p><p>Stiles dumps his latest load at the foot of the queen-sized mattress. Cora and Isaac are poking around the furniture and the attached bathroom, while Erica lounges on the bed as she flips through a birdwatching magazine.</p><p>“How did you accumulate so much crap already?” Stiles asks, gesturing at the boxes on the bed. “Also, why am I, the human, doing all the carrying?”</p><p>“You need the weight training more than we do,” a voice says from the doorway.</p><p>Stiles turns to see Boyd, who looks unfairly soft and huggable in an old, worn t-shirt. “Boyd,” Stiles says, “This house is <em>huge</em>. How did you get it?”</p><p>Boyd enters the room, setting three glasses of water on the wardrobe. Isaac gives Boyd a small smile before picking one up. “I first came to Beacon Hills when I was fifteen,” Boyd says. “Melia found me and sent me to this house, to live with an elderly woman named Florence Mason. I helped her around the house in exchange for living with her, and when she died, she left the house to me.”</p><p>“Did she not have any children?” Isaac asks.</p><p>Boyd shakes his head. “Her grandfather had built it, so she wanted it going to someone she knew.”</p><p>“So you own this now? Completely own it?” Erica asks.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Erica starts bombarding Boyd with unexpectedly specific real estate questions, and Cora and Isaac have ducked into the bathroom again, so Stiles decides to start on another trip of carrying heavy things that the werewolves should be taking care of.</p><p>He mutters as much under his breath as he clatters down the stairs, and, so absorbed in watching his feet move across the ground, he does not see the new car at the end of the driveway until he is about to pop his trunk. Stiles recognizes Lydia’s Camaro and automatically breaks into a smile until he realizes the person in the driver’s seat is not a petite, impeccably dressed redhead.</p><p>Nope. That is Derek Hale, knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel too tightly as he <em>glares</em> at Stiles’s Jeep.</p><p>“You asshole,” Stiles says, fully aware that Derek can hear him.</p><p>He starts stalking towards the Camaro, and Derek slips out of the car to meet Stiles in the middle of Boyd’s driveway.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” Derek growls.</p><p>“Helping my friends move in,” Stiles snaps. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Derek does not answer Stiles’s question, which is not a surprise at all. “Leave,” he says, lips curling, and Stiles might take Derek more seriously if his crossed arms and bunched shoulders were not <em>screaming</em> insecurity.</p><p>“No,” Stiles says, stepping closer just to get all up in Derek’s face, because his gut tells him Derek will <em>hate</em> that but also will not do anything about it. “If you have a problem with me, fine, whatever. I don’t care. But you don’t get to decide what I do.”</p><p>Derek’s curled lip twitches, but he does not say anything.</p><p>“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t know your history with Erica and Isaac. But we’re all adults here, not high schoolers, so <em>you</em> need to shape up.”</p><p>Stiles stabs Derek’s chest with a pointed finger, and apparently Stiles’s gut was slightly wrong, because next thing Stiles knows he has been slammed against the side of the Camaro. “Fuck,” Stiles spits, in part because of the pain, and in part because it has been a while since someone has gotten the jump on Stiles. Derek moves <em>fast</em>.</p><p>Derek also has his fist curled in Stiles’s shirt. “Stay away from them,” he threatens.</p><p>Whether <em>them</em> means Lydia and Boyd, or Cora, or all of the people upstairs in the house, it does not matter. Stiles smirks, because sometimes he can be an asshole, and he would be lying if he said he did not enjoy it. “Derek,” he says, “They come to me.”</p><p>For half a second, something other than anger slips through Derek’s expression, but then the angled eyebrows are back with a vengeance. Stiles moves to pull Derek’s hand from his shirt, but before he can come into contact with Derek’s wrist, Derek lets go of him.</p><p>Stiles returns to his Jeep, resolutely ignoring the werewolf behind him, and grabs two more boxes to take upstairs. When he reaches the room, it seems as though everyone was too absorbed in their conversations to realize he and Derek were arguing in the driveway – or maybe they are all really good actors. Stiles does not count on the latter. “I’m going to head back to my place,” Stiles announces to no one in particular. “I’m leaving the rest of the bags on the front step, because carrying everything myself is <em>ridiculous</em>.”</p><p>“Thanks, Stiles,” Isaac says, poking his head out of the bathroom.</p><p>“We love you!” Erica cries. She somehow got Boyd sitting next to her, their thighs pressed flush against one another, and damn, Erica Reyes makes her moves quickly.</p><p>Stiles gives a jaunty wave before heading out of the room. He turns down the hall and jumps when he sees Derek already halfway up the stairs, carrying the last three bags from Stiles’s trunk in his hands. For a second, their eyes meet, and they lock gazes. Derek’s expression is frustratingly inscrutable, but before Stiles can take a closer look, the other man looks down as if the hardwood is the most fascinating thing he has seen in a decade and pushes onward, clinging to the wall to give Stiles as wide a berth as possible.</p><p>As soon as Derek clears the stairs, Stiles barrels down them and out the front door. <em>Fuck emotionally stunted man-children</em>, Stiles thinks as he slides into the Jeep. He turns on the radio, flipping stations until he happens to land on one of his mother’s favorite classic rock songs, and racks up the volume before pulling onto the street.</p><p>He tries to concentrate on the way that the bass line dances up and down the frets underneath a rollicking guitar solo, because he does not want to think right now. He <em>refuses</em> to, especially because he can feel a part of him wanting to return and linger on that moment of eye contact, the way the anger in Derek’s expression had faltered for a second. <em>That implies nothing</em>, Stiles tells himself sternly, because he does not need to waste his time on something that has <em>no implications</em>. Right? <em>Right</em>.</p><p>If Stiles spends the rest of his evening blasting his mother’s favorite albums so loudly that even the sound of his drill is drowned out, no one has to know about it but him.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>It has been a week since his sister and the other two betas have moved in with Boyd, but Stiles’s words are still echoing inside Derek’s skull. <em>Derek</em>, the young man had said, <em>They come to me</em>.</p><p>Derek has yet to decide whether Stiles’s smile had been sympathetic or cruel, but that hardly matters. What matters is that Stiles will not leave Derek’s mind, that he called out Derek for being an asshole, and that even though Derek swears he does not care what Stiles Stilinski thinks, Stiles’s words have caused Derek to – well, <em>change</em> might be a strong word.</p><p>But Derek finds himself now paying attention to things he barely used to even notice. Every time Cora subconsciously brushes against Erica or Isaac, Derek finds his jealousy replaced with a growing sense of acceptance of the two betas. While Erica mostly ignores Derek, something deep in his bones – the connection of an alpha to a beta they created – tells him that she is only pretending not to care. And though Isaac keeps his distance, his watchful gaze constantly follows Derek, a sensation that somehow is not as unnerving as Derek thinks it should be.</p><p>Here is the kicker: in spite of all the accusation in Stiles’s tone when he told Derek to <em>shape up</em>, Derek does not bristle at the memory; he cannot find the anger that used to always sit, tense and read to spring, in his chest. Without realizing it until it had irreversibly set into motion, Derek has warmed again to the idea of trying and of being, impossibly, better. Of proving something. The desire is so foreign and long repressed that Derek struggles against it, but even the struggle is better than the apathy of before, all the more so when he wins.</p><p>Winning one of these battles is what sends Derek to the back door of Whittemore Bakery, late one morning, when he senses Cora lingering there.</p><p>His younger sister has not come to the bakery since she moved out of the apartment, first to 181 Birch Street and then to 13 Cuttlebuck Lane. Boyd’s house, in fact, has become the informal meeting place of this strange pack-but-not-quite-pack of theirs; more often than not, Lydia is there for dinners, and over the last week, Derek has also visited his beta more frequently than usual. His <em>betas</em>, he supposes, though he vacillates hourly whether or not Erica, Isaac, or even Cora are becoming members of his pack.</p><p>When Derek emerges from the back entrance, Cora is already staring at the doorway expectantly. “Hi,” she says awkwardly. Though Cora at age eleven had been a chatterbox, she and Derek have grown up apart from one another for the last thirteen years, and Derek often wonders how his sister turned out the way she did. Not that there is anything to dislike about her; there is just so little that Derek <em>knows</em> about his sister’s life.</p><p>Wordlessly, Derek holds out the cupcake he had grabbed from the daily special display before coming outside. Cora takes it, raises it to her nose to sniff deeply – an action so distinctly <em>Cora</em>, whether eleven or twenty-four, that Derek wants to smile – and laughs. “You always did prefer bribery when we were kids,” Cora says.</p><p>“So carrot cake is still your favorite.”</p><p>“Of course,” Cora replies, voice muffled by a mouthful of cupcake.</p><p>She sits down on the backdoor steps, and Derek follows suit, staring as his flour-dusted knuckles as Cora demolishes her baked good. It takes less than a minute. “Why are you here?” Derek asks, because this is part of the new and maybe improving Derek: he asks questions in a non-aggressive manner and actually cares about the answer.</p><p>Cora shrugs. “I want to thank you for trying.” Off of Derek’s confused look, Cora inexplicably blushes, looking askance. “It’s – something I picked up from Isaac. Acknowledging when people try.” She clears her throat. “Anyway. I’ve – I’ve noticed that you’ve been trying, with me and Erica and Isaac, and I wanted to say thank you.”</p><p>“I haven’t really done anything,” Derek mumbles, uncertain how to respond to direct gratitude. Derek cannot remember the last time someone thanked him, other than Parrish, but every other word from Parrish’s mouth is <em>please</em> or <em>thank you</em>, so that hardly counts.</p><p>“Well, you’re not growling at them or throwing them into walls,” Cora comments drily.</p><p>“The expectations are that low,” Derek drawls.</p><p>“Derek!”</p><p>Cora’s cry is more exasperated than amused, and Derek knows he has toed the line of too-real-to-be-funny self-deprecation. “I don’t think they like me,” Derek says before Cora can try to say something sappy.</p><p>She does not tell him <em>Of course they do</em> or <em>Just give it some time</em>, for which Derek is grateful. He is well aware that the two betas have every right to hate him for eternity, and he does not want his own sister to half-heartedly attempt to spare his feelings. Derek is learning to handle his mistakes. It has taken seven long, slow, and painful years of growing, but Derek might be getting there, he thinks.</p><p>Instead, Cora quirks up one side of her lip. “They know you’re trying,” she says.</p><p>Her fingers pick at her cuticles, a habit their mother used to try to stop even though the damage skin would heal within minutes. It is also a habit, Derek knows, that indicates Cora is nervous.</p><p>And here is new and improved Derek again, asking actual questions: “Is there something else?”</p><p>She inhales and then, in a rush of an exhale: “I need you to stop cutting out Stiles.”</p><p>Derek has to consciously relax his clenched jaw. “I can’t trust him.”</p><p>Cora rubs her hands down her face. “Look,” she says, and she sounds tired and stressed, “I don’t know what it is about him that makes you so… like <em>this</em>. But he could help us. Really help us.”</p><p>“With what?”</p><p>“The sacrifices.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Derek. Do you know how I met Stiles?”</p><p>No, Derek does not, because the only people who could tell him are Cora, Stiles, Isaac, or Erica, and Derek does not speak to three of those four people.</p><p>“He saved my life. More than once, in only two days.”</p><p>That part Derek knows. “I know –”</p><p>“But he never would have known I was in trouble in the first place if he hadn’t been hired to find me.”</p><p>Derek double takes. “What?”</p><p>Cora places her hand over his, hesitantly, and Derek grips his sister’s fingers tightly. “I don’t know exactly what to call what he does,” Cora continues. “But he’s been trained, and he’s experienced in– God, I don’t know, a startlingly wide variety of things. And he’s <em>known</em> for it, for getting results.”</p><p>Derek is still stuck on an earlier point. “Someone paid Stiles to find you?”</p><p>Cora nods. “Stiles doesn’t know who it was, either,” she says in anticipation of Derek’s next question. “Cash from an anonymous source, and the information he needed to find me.”</p><p>“This doesn’t make me trust him more.”</p><p>“I’m not asking you to trust him, Derek. I’m asking you to use him as a resource.”</p><p>Derek looks at Cora. She has their father’s eyes, just like Derek, and when she shifts, her eyes are blue. Derek has not asked her about it, just as she has not asked Derek about his red eyes. It is a question, however, that Derek promises himself to one day ask. <em>Wolves have no secrets</em>, he thinks.</p><p>“I’ll try,” Derek says.</p><p>He is not expecting Cora to throw her arms around him and press her face against the side of his neck, but that is exactly what she does, radiating warmth. “Thank you,” she says feelingly, and that is the second time in this conversation Derek has been thanked.</p><p>Feeling overwhelmed, Derek presses a kiss to his sister’s hair and returns her hug as tightly as he can.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>The next morning, when Derek is just transitioning from his daily morning baking routine to working on custom orders, he gets a phone call from Boyd. When he answers it, he cannot even get out a greeting before Boyd says, “There’s another body. When can you get to the preserve on the east side of town?”</p><p>Derek dials back the volume on his radio. “Lydia should be back in an hour.”</p><p>“Okay. The sooner, the better. They think we have a scent.”</p><p>A five-minute flurry of texts and calls later, Derek stows away his cake decorating supplies and starts cleaning down his workspace. In another ten minutes Cora arrives, Isaac in tow, and shortly thereafter Lydia pulls the Camaro up at the curb in front of the bakery. Lydia is not happy.</p><p>“Derek, you know the ten o’clock rush is not a one person job,” she snaps, nearly whipping the car keys at Derek’s chest. “You need to get back as soon as you –”</p><p>“Cora brought him,” Derek interrupts, tilting his head at Isaac.</p><p>There is a half-second of silence as the other three process what he means; then Lydia, the first to snap out of it, grabs Isaac’s wrist and practically drags him into the bakery. Cora makes a noise of protest, but she does not follow them. “Will he be okay?” she asks Derek.</p><p>Derek watches Lydia steer Isaac to the spot behind the cash register and gesture as she explains the precise rectangle of space that he is not allowed to leave unless she says so. “He’ll be fine,” Derek says, an unfamiliar urge to smile twitching his lips.</p><p>When they reach the preserve on the east side of town, Parrish is waiting for them on the side of the road. “Good morning, Derek,” he says, and then holds out a hand to Cora. “And you must be Cora. Deputy Jordan Parrish. Pleased to meet you.”</p><p>Parrish begins to lead them into the woods, following a stomped-down trail of still-green undergrowth. “From the coroner’s initial report,” he informs, “the victim is an unidentified man, around forty years old, a chimera.”</p><p>Derek can feel Cora’s concerned gaze directed at him, but the most he can offer her right now is a grim shake of his head. Chimeras are notoriously slippery; to catch and contain a chimera long enough to perform a sacrifice further confirms that whoever is behind the murders is either incredibly powerful, experienced, or both.</p><p>“The scent?” Derek asks.</p><p>Parrish wrinkles his nose. “Advanced apologies – it’s a used tissue.”</p><p>“We’ve stuck our noses in worse,” Cora says under her breath, and Derek’s lips twitch.</p><p>Derek begins to pick up sounds of a BHPD unit covering a scene much sooner than he expected, and shortly, they come upon a small space in the woods that has been cordoned off by the police. Derek spares a second to glance at Cora. He probably should have thought twice before dragging his younger sister to a crime scene, but he intuitively knew he wanted his sister at his side. She wears a passively neutral expression, apparently unafraid of what could be lying behind the yellow tape.</p><p>Derek shudders at the thought of the atrocities his sister must have witnessed between ages eleven and twenty-four, and he shudders again when he turns and sees the body.</p><p>Unlike the victims from the other crime scene photos, the chimera’s body is … <em>mangled</em>. Forest floor debris and blood intermingle around limbs that have been all but torn from the victim’s body, and there are a few places Derek can see ligament and bone. The face is marred by a nose that looks more smashed than broken. Ropes wind tightly around his neck, chest, wrists, and ankles. The smell of death and fear lingers strongly in this spot, but oddly, that is the only scent – the only other identifiable scents belong to the BHPD members on the scene.</p><p>Derek’s stomach roils, and he glances at Cora again. His sister’s face is completely shuttered off.</p><p>“Any chance you recognize him?” Parrish asks softly from behind.</p><p>Derek shakes his head and turns away. Something brushes against his forearm, and he jerks away on instinct before realizing Cora has reached out to grab his wrist. Her countenance is still flat, as if she has not emotionally processed anything since following Parrish into the woods, and before Derek realizes it, he has reached out to draw his sister against his side. Her arm snakes around his waist, and Derek feels a tension inside his chest release.</p><p>“Have you spoken to Melia?” Derek asks Parrish.</p><p>The deputy shakes his head. “Boyd left a message with Danny.” Parrish raises a plastic bag he had not been holding before. Inside is a crumpled tissue that has a touch of dried blood on one corner.</p><p>“Where was that picked up?” Cora asks.</p><p>“About a hundred yards north of here.”</p><p>Parrish uses a pair of tweezers to remove the tissue and hold it up. Derek steps forward first, sniffing and taking a few deeper inhales before withdrawing. He shakes his head as he watches Cora do the same, though she wears a personally offended expression the entire time. “There’s hardly a scent,” she tells Derek.</p><p>“Could either of you recognize it?” Parrish asks, returning the tissue to the evidence bag.</p><p>“No,” Cora answers.</p><p>Parrish nods, as if he expected as much. “If you cross this scent anywhere within town lines, please let us know,” he says. “The same goes for the woman profiled by our sketch artist.”</p><p>“Any leads on her?” Derek asks.</p><p>“Not really. We’ve had a few tips called in, but they haven’t panned out.” Parrish rubs a spot above his right brow. “Could be that she just happened to visit town around the time we started looking for suspects.”</p><p>But without this woman, the only other suspect would be Stiles. Given that Derek has seen Stiles wandering around town freely more than once since Derek and Melia visited the BHPD, he assumes Stiles’s alibis checked out, so that leaves them with … nothing.</p><p>“We’ll pass anything we find onto you,” Derek says, and the smile he receives in return is tight and worn.</p><p>He and Cora walk back to the Camaro in contemplative silence. Derek concentrates on the leaves and twigs crunching beneath his shoes more than he thinks; he does not <em>want</em> to think, to be honest. Sure, Beacon Hills has seen its share of dark things, and Derek has been around for plenty of it himself. But more often than not, the darkness is something less than human, something driven by baser instinct or madness. This – these sacrifices – are human in that they are deliberate and planned. It is intentional evil that has always terrified Derek.</p><p>He checks Cora’s expression once more before he starts driving, but she has retreated to unreadability again. They are halfway back to the bakery when Cora finally breaks the silence. “Der,” she says, and the small voice she uses to say Laura’s nickname for Derek nearly breaks Derek’s heart right there. “What if the next one is one of us?”</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>A few days after the latest body, when Lydia first sees the strange woman in person, her immediate fear is overpowered by outrage. “What did you do to Danny?” she demands.</p><p>The small part of Lydia’s brain that is not terrified or incensed takes in her unfamiliar surroundings. A cheap motel room, it looks like, with a dreary beige and white interior and a neatly made bed. She is tightly tied to a wooden desk chair with a rough, natural rope that chafes the skin of her wrists and ankles.</p><p>And of course there is <em>her</em>. The woman who must be the one who is doing all these ungodly sacrifices, because death clings to her presence in a way that makes Lydia’s hair stand on end. She has a regal face with features that could be beautiful, if she tried harder and her default expression was not apathetic murderer.</p><p>“Who, that magus?” the witch asks. “I gave him a twenty-minute power nap.”</p><p>Lydia has no reason to trust this woman’s words, especially given that she is dumb enough to misidentify Danny as something more powerful than the witch he is, but it is not like Lydia has options here. If this woman is telling the truth about the twenty minutes, it is unlikely that Lydia is about to die. Lydia had left her purse with Danny in the park when she went back to Whittemore Bakery for her cell phone, which means in twenty minutes, Danny will wake with Lydia’s purse but no Lydia. A call to her phone will go unanswered; when Danny goes to the bakery and finds out she never made it, he will alert Melia, Derek, and the BHPD. Since she shares a metaphysical connection to Derek and Boyd through being pack, it will not take long for them to find her; Lydia gives them another twenty minutes, at the most.</p><p>When all is said and done, forty minutes is not nearly enough time for the witch to complete all the necessary rituals for a proper sacrifice.</p><p>“What do you want?” Lydia asks.</p><p>The woman paces in front of Lydia, the sway of her motions more leisurely than frantic. She feels she is in control, right now. “You’re all going after the wrong person,” she says.</p><p>“What? You aren’t the one murdering people for sacrifices left and right?”</p><p>The woman stops pacing and crouches in front of Lydia. “I am obligated to the person ordering these sacrifices,” she says, voice low and tinged, for the first time, with a sense of urgency. “This will go on as long as he continues to live.”</p><p>“Or until you stop.”</p><p>“I’m doing what I can to make it as painless as possible.”</p><p><em>Christ</em>, from the look on her face, this woman believes that that reason absolves her of what she has done.</p><p>“And yet it’s still <em>murder</em>,” Lydia spits.</p><p>And Lydia must have hit a nerve, because the woman suddenly flips a switch, snarling as well as a human can and driving her hand against Lydia’s throat. She starts squeezing, and the smell of ozone that Lydia briefly catches confirms that she puts some magical <em>oomph</em> into it.</p><p>“You don’t know what I’ve seen,” she seethes in Lydia’s ear. “I have seen too much to care about some unlucky strangers. If <em>you</em> really care that much, you should listen to me and <em>kill him</em>.”</p><p>She releases Lydia, and Lydia hates how loud her instinctive gasp is. “Rot in hell,” she splutters. She swallows repeatedly, willing her throat to recover. If she can just scream, Derek and Boyd can probably get here before this woman does something completely rash –</p><p>The witch clamps her hand over Lydia’s mouth. “Oh, no, no,” she chides. Lydia whips her head side to side, and when that does not work, bites down on the witch’s finger. The witch does not even flinch. “Just because I decided to keep you alive for this message,” she hisses, “Doesn’t mean I won’t change my mind.”</p><p>The taste of copper bursts across Lydia’s tongue, and the woman <em>still</em> does not budge. Lydia lets go, twisting her head to spit vigorously. There is no telling the consequences of witch’s blood in Lydia’s body.</p><p>The witch laughs. “Smart girl,” she says contemptuously.</p><p>Before Lydia can rip her a new one for the condescending tone, the witch mutters something in an unrecognizable language, and Lydia’s world goes black.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>When her consciousness returns, everything feels murky. She vaguely registers feeling cold, and it takes longer than it should for her eyes to agree to open. Finally, they cooperate, and once they adjust, she can just make out trees and a night sky. She must be in the preserve. She tries to sit up. At first, it seems like her limbs are not cooperating; then she realizes her wrists and ankles are bound with fresh rope. “Witches,” Lydia hisses.</p><p>Or tries to. Her tongue is heavy in her mouth, and her jaw refuses to cooperate. Did the witch do something to her, to keep her from screaming? Usually, Lydia feels safe in the preserve, more so knowing that her pack is only a proper scream away. But with hunters and that witch roaming around the woods at night, and without her voice –</p><p><em>Breathe</em>, Lydia tells herself against her panicked thoughts. But her head is getting heavier and heavier, and oh, God, maybe after all the witch <em>did</em> change her mind about killing Lydia –</p><p>“<em>Lydia?</em>”</p><p>The other voice sounds muddled, and Lydia is not quite sure if it is real until a face blocks out the stars and trees above her. Her eyes focus for a moment, and –</p><p>“<em>Jordan</em>,” she mumbles, or maybe thinks, but reality is terrifyingly hard to follow right now.</p><p>Time and space and everything, really, become foggy, but the one clear thing for the next several moments is the weight at the back of her skull that lets her know Jordan Parrish is there. Jordan is <em>here</em>, with her, and never has his presence felt more reassuring.</p><p>When she comes around again, it is to a steady hand gently but firmly rubbing her upper arm. “Miss Martin,” Jordan says, looking at her with wide green eyes, “Can you hear me?”</p><p>Lydia opens her mouth – good, her jaw is cooperating – but all that comes out is a croak. Jordan turns around to grab something behind him, at which point Lydia realizes they are in a car, but not a squad car, and Jordan is in plainclothes. He faces her again with a small metal thermos in hand. “Melia Mahealani prepared this,” he says. “It should clear out most minor poisons and residual magic, okay?”</p><p>Lydia nods, and Jordan lifts the thermos to her lips. Two sips, and suddenly Lydia’s senses slam into her with sharp, restored clarity. Jordan takes away the thermos. “Better, Miss Martin?” he asks.</p><p>Lydia drops her head back against the seat cushion, shutting her eyes of her own volition and taking a few calming breaths. “Drop the ‘<em>Miss Martin</em>.’ I heard you call me Lydia.”</p><p>When she opens her eyes again, Jordan is trying hard to not look embarrassed, and – oh. Okay. It seems like she is no longer referring to him as Parrish, either.</p><p>“How do you feel?” Jordan asks.</p><p>Lydia looks down at herself. Jordan must have cut away the ropes. The skin of her wrists is an angry red, and she will bet her ankles look the same. Whatever Melia did to the water in Jordan’s thermos – and it really did taste like water – has left a soothing warmth in Lydia’s veins, reminiscent of the time she and Boyd tried faerie wine a few summers ago. “Drugged, but in a good way,” Lydia supplies.</p><p>Jordan laughs, twisting the cap onto the thermos before pressing it into Lydia’s palm. “Take more if you need it, but not too much,” he says. “Do you feel pain anywhere?”</p><p>Lydia shakes her head. “Not really, anymore.”</p><p>“Might I check?”</p><p>As he asks his question, his hands reach out and hover in the air between them. Lydia truly thinks she is fine, especially now that she has had Melia’s remedy, but she suddenly craves the touch of another person, a double reassurance to the weight at the back of her head that she is alive and anchored in the real world.</p><p>Lydia nods, and Jordan methodically apply pressure to her body, starting with her face and neck and going all the way to her feet. He murmurs softly throughout his palpation check, telling her in advance what he will do next, but Lydia filters out the distinct words, focusing on the press of steady palms and fingers to her shoulders, her ribs, her calves. “Everything seems all right,” Jordan says when he is through, and Lydia opens her eyes.</p><p>He is awkwardly crouching halfway in and halfway out of the backseat of his car, where Lydia has been laid out with a folded jacket beneath her head as a pillow. Over Jordan’s shoulder, the preserve looms menacingly, and Lydia suppresses a shudder. “We should leave,” Lydia says, clumsily pushing herself into a more upright position.</p><p>Jordan nods. “One minute,” he says, then slips out of the car and shuts the door behind him, mindful of Lydia’s feet. He circles around the driver’s seat, buckles up, and starts the car, the engine purring to life with an unexpectedly soft sound. “Where do you want to go?” Jordan asks, twisting to look at Lydia.</p><p>Lydia blinks. “Don’t I have to go into the station?”</p><p>Jordan shrugs. “The station will want you to make a statement, but I understand if you don’t want to go there right now.”</p><p>Lydia considers. She needs to tell Derek and Boyd, first and foremost, that she is okay, and then Danny. “Can we go to Boyd’s?”</p><p>Jordan nods, turning back to the steering wheel and putting the car in drive. They pull off the side of the road and follow what looks like, to Lydia, Old Post Road. Jordan turns the radio on low, flipping stations until he comes to the classical station that Derek plays at Whittemore Bakery.</p><p>Lydia zones out, staring at the passing scenery through the window. The happy-drugged feeling keeps her from pursuing answers to the various questions that float up in her mind, such as <em>Will Boyd be home?</em> or <em>Why does Jordan know the bakery’s radio station?</em> or <em>Why didn’t the witch identify who she was working for?</em> Thankfully, however, she can feel the effects of Melia’s remedy starting to wear off, enough so that by the time they are a block from Boyd’s house, Lydia has the sense to tell Jordan to pull over.</p><p>He does so immediately, asking, “Is something wrong?”</p><p>When the car is in park, Lydia fully sits up and scoots forward until she can lean into the gap between the two front seats. Jordan turns and seems surprised by how close their faces are. “Miss – Lydia?” he asks.</p><p>“How did you find me?”</p><p>Jordan looks her in the eye even as his brows furrow. “I don’t know,” he eventually replies. “I heard you went missing, and then I just … knew where I had to go.”</p><p>“So … you were lucky enough to stumble across me?”</p><p>He shakes his head. “It felt … I don’t know how to explain it. It was like there was something in my chest, tugging me in the right direction. In your direction.”</p><p>Lydia chews on the inside of her cheek. Maybe the witch did something to lead Jordan to her. Why would the witch do that, though? And why Jordan? Lydia’s heart races at the thought of the witch coming anywhere near Jordan, and oh, God, that is a new feeling that Lydia will have to analyze later.</p><p>“That’s weird,” Lydia mutters.</p><p>Jordan shifts in his seat, simultaneously putting space between them and allowing them to look at each other comfortably. “Look. I … I wasn’t always human.”</p><p>Lydia stares. “What does that mean?”</p><p>Jordan swallows, eyes darting down to his hands, which keep clasping and unclasping. “You know I used to be in the Army, right?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“During one tour I was …” He wets his lips, his expression pinched. “… possessed. By a hellhound.”</p><p>Lydia frowns. “Hellhounds don’t just leave their hosts.”</p><p>Jordan nods. “I found help, from a witch in Lebanon. He sent me here, afterwards, to Beacon Hills, because he knew Melia could continue to help me.”</p><p>It sounds too simple to be true. Lydia also thought it was only in myths that humans could be strong enough to fight off being possessed by supernatural forces. “So now you’re just … not possessed?”</p><p>She receives a shrug in answer. “Since I’ve come to Beacon Hills, yes,” he says. “From what I understand, I’d be more susceptible than another being to forces from the other side. But Melia does so much to keep me safe. I’m … I feel indebted to her. For life.”</p><p>The new information is much to process, especially when Jordan is less than a foot away from her, feeling and looking as human as possible with his even breathing and sincere green eyes. “So because I’m a banshee,” Lydia says, “And you were once the host of a hellhound … you think we have a connection of some sort?”</p><p>His wide eyes beg understanding. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense, isn’t it?”</p><p>“And you only just discovered this?”</p><p>“Yes. I’ve never felt it before. But …”</p><p>He bites his lip, concerned, and Lydia resists the urge to tell him to <em>Spit it out, already</em>. “But?” she echoes instead.</p><p>“To be completely honest, I think – if I needed to – I could find you anywhere, now.”</p><p>Lydia sits back again, sinking into the soft leather of the car seat. Jordan can find her anywhere. A man who is not part of her pack could <em>find her anywhere</em>. The thought should be scary, and yet …</p><p>“Okay,” she says.</p><p>They stare at each other. Lydia is not quite sure what she is looking for in Jordan’s expression, and she has no idea what he finds in hers, but whatever this moment is, it feels like something is changing, and, refreshingly, Lydia finds that she is not afraid. She is curious.</p><p>“Boyd’s?” she prompts.</p><p>Jordan nods and turns back to the wheel, breaking their eye contact. The rest of the ride passes in silence.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>V.</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Derek is terrified and has been so for the last ten hours. Something inside his chest is throwing itself against his ribcage, terror scraping each ragged breath in and out of his lungs, his heart beating itself into a frenzy. <em>Lydia, Lydia, Lydia</em> is the only mantra that keeps him from completely losing his mind.</p><p>As soon as Danny showed up at Whittemore Bakery and told Derek what had happened, Derek went straight to the park only to find that all the scents that should have been there were gone – Lydia’s, the scent of whoever took her, even Danny’s scent were wiped clean. Derek does not know what happened to the bakery, does not really care, but sometime around his fifth lap of the town proper, Cora joined him and has been with him ever since.</p><p>They are now in the preserve, deep enough that there are hardly any non-animal scents to be picked up. Derek has been running for so long that his legs actually feel sore, but he cannot stop. Not when Lydia is missing.</p><p>Lydia, who has been the only constant in Derek’s life for the last seven years. Who saved Derek’s life, and then saved Derek from causing more damage by taming the wolf’s urge to bite others and strengthen its pack. Lydia, who <em>is</em> his pack. Sure, he has Boyd, and now Cora, but Lydia has been his rock for so long that the thought of not having her anymore shakes the haphazard foundations he has been slowly rebuilding for his heart and his mind.</p><p>Something grabs at Derek’s arm, and he automatically swipes it away. He cannot have any distractions when Lydia needs to be found –</p><p>Suddenly Derek is pinned on his back against the forest floor, and he snarls, fangs shooting out of his gums, before he realizes it is Cora who is struggling to keep him down.</p><p>“Derek!” she shouts, claws digging into his biceps hard enough to draw blood. “Your phone!”</p><p>Derek shifts back and realizes that <em>is</em> his phone buzzing against his thigh. He digs it out of his pocket and does not check the caller ID before answering, “<em>What?</em>”</p><p>“She’s back. Jordan found her and –”</p><p>Derek’s heart thunders. “Where?” he demands.</p><p>“My place –”</p><p>Next thing Derek knows, he is running, <em>sprinting</em> back towards town. He can sense Cora behind him, panting with the exertion of keeping up with him, and when he reaches through the metaphysical bond that connects him to his pack, he can feel Boyd and Cora and – yes, there is a flickering of something, something that feels like Lydia coming back from whatever spell she had been under –</p><p>His sense of Lydia strengthens with each stride towards Boyd’s house, and tears of relief leak from his eyes by the time he reaches Boyd’s neighborhood. Her presence, gone for so long, is now reassuring in its strength, and Derek breaks down Boyd’s back door in his haste to see his pack member.</p><p>There is a crowd of people in the living room, but Derek only has eyes for the young woman curled on the couch. “Derek,” Lydia says, her voice catching in her throat, and Derek dives forward to wrap her in a crushing hug.</p><p>For several long minutes, he loses himself in the scent at the roots of her hair, in the sound of her heartbeat. She is crying, he registers, as he still is, and he presses her face against his shoulder to let her use his shirt as a tissue. He almost lost this, Derek thinks. He almost lost <em>her</em>. And maybe he deserves that – accumulating grief, the only constant in his life, seems a reasonable price to pay for all the ways in which he has fucked up – but if the universe has decided he gets to keep Lydia for a bit longer, he will not take that mercy for granted.</p><p>Eventually, Derek feels enough like himself again to ease his embrace. His senses start picking up on the rest of his surroundings again; the living room is empty, save him and Lydia, but there are others throughout the house, in various states of tension and exhaustion.</p><p>Lydia reaches up and rubs tears from Derek’s cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt. “I’m sorry,” she says. There are mottled bruises around her neck, and Derek cannot help flashing his eyes red.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Derek says vehemently. “I’m the one who – I should have –”</p><p>Lydia shakes her head. “I hate distressing you,” she says. “And you looked so …”</p><p>She cannot seem to find the word for it. Derek runs a palm from the crown of her forehead to the end of her hair and repeats the motion over and over, for his comfort as much as hers. Lydia is here, and she is real, and she is – is she okay?</p><p>“What happened?” Derek asks.</p><p>As Lydia recounts what she can recall, Derek has to fight against the extremely compelling urge to find this dark-haired witch and tear her apart with nothing but tooth and claw. Lydia can read him too well, though, and every time his heart starts racing again, she leans into him and squeezes his torso.</p><p>When she is done, her voice is hoarse again. Derek presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly.</p><p>She waits for a moment, eyes focusing on some unseen distance. “For now,” she eventually says, and though that answer makes Derek yearn to do something, <em>anything</em>, more for her, he contents himself with holding her close until she falls asleep.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Lydia, being Lydia, wakes up at a quarter to five in the morning and demands that Derek opens the bakery because they cannot keep losing profit and because their wholesale partners (essentially, the two coffee shops on opposite sides of town) will be displeased. Derek thinks the bakery could be closed for the next week in light of Lydia’s abduction and no one would complain, but he knows that Lydia will not listen to any argument of the sort. He settles for leaving Cora at Lydia’s bedside and ordering his sister to provide hourly check-ins, regardless of what Lydia might say.</p><p>The bakery feels weirdly empty, what with Derek having not done closing yesterday and no one sleeping peacefully in the apartment above. Derek can smell Danny and Isaac in the kitchen and the space behind the bar; they must have taken care of things when Derek left so abruptly. Derek scrawls their names on a sticky note, as a reminder to thank them later, and turns the classical radio station on high before getting down to work.</p><p>It is maybe an hour before opening when Derek hears, over the strains of Handel, someone pounding on the shop’s front door. Derek briskly claps the flour from his hands and emerges from the kitchen only to stop in his tracks because –</p><p>Through the front door, Stiles Stilinski waves sheepishly at Derek, a large tupperware tucked under his other arm.</p><p>Derek considers, for half a second, going straight back to the kitchen – Whittemore Bakery is not, after all, open until another hour – but a curiosity peeks over his shoulder and tugs at Derek’s ear until he crosses the floor and unlocks the door.</p><p>“We’re not open yet,” Derek says before Stiles can get anything out.</p><p>That self-conscious look reappears. It is a weird expression to see on Stiles’s face, particularly when Derek has only really seen him either calculating or angry. “I – I wanted to check on you, before you got actual customers and then I’d be getting even more in the way,” Stiles explains.</p><p>Derek blinks. He may be sleep-deprived and physically exhausted in a way he hasn’t been since before he was on the run from his problems in Southern California, but there is no way in hell his brain would hallucinate Stiles wanting to check in on him. “Okay,” Derek says dumbly.</p><p>There is a beat of silence, in which a million expressions fly across Stiles’s face and Derek’s thoughts are a one-note drone of a non-functioning elevator, but then Stiles saves them both by shoving the tupperware forward. “Here,” he says. “Uh. Cora asked for this, back when I – uh – yeah.”</p><p>Derek takes the container and cracks it open. He is immediately hit with an aroma that strikes a reverberating nostalgia through him. Walnut raisin bread, infused with Talia Hale’s secret blend of spices. Derek had forgotten his mother even made these loaves; he wonders why Cora remembered after all these years, and how she was able to describe it exactly to Stiles.</p><p>Stiles is still running his mouth. “ – and I thought if it comforted Cora, hey, it might also help you –”</p><p>“Do you want to come in?”</p><p>The words are out before the thought is fully formed, but Derek surprisingly does not regret them.</p><p>Stiles hesitates. “Are you sure?”</p><p>Derek nods. “Coffee is already brewed.”</p><p>Stiles laughs, and the last of the tension held in his fidgeting hands disappears. “Well, that sells it.”</p><p>Derek ends up putting a stool the swinging doors between the kitchen and the front of the shop, where Stiles sits nursing his black coffee from an old chipped BHPD mug that used to belong to Boyd. The more coffee he drinks, the more quickly Stiles speaks, and Derek finds himself following the cadence more than the content of what Stiles is ranting about as Derek goes through the last several batches of doughnuts before he has to open up the shop.</p><p>When the last batch of old-fashioned vanilla donuts is cooling, Derek opens his mouth to tell Stiles he has to leave, but what comes out instead is, “Who hired you to find Cora?”</p><p>Stiles does not tense, per se, so much as he goes abruptly still, but this is Stiles. He is perpetually in motion. “I don’t know,” he eventually answers. “I received everything from an anonymous source.”</p><p>“Including money.”</p><p>Stiles nods. There must be something in Derek’s expression, because he scrambles to explain, “I tried tracing whoever it was, have been for the last year, but they’re <em>good</em> –”</p><p>“What <em>do</em> you do?”</p><p>And, shit, that was the wrong way to ask that. Stiles bristles, eyes sparking. “Look, <em>Hale</em>. I’m not going to sit here and take any regressive asshole bullshit –”</p><p>“No,” Derek blurts. He closes his eyes and forcefully exhales. “Sorry. I meant – I just want to know. No motive.”</p><p>Stiles does not immediately respond, prompting Derek to open his eyes. Their gazes lock, and for a moment, everything is held in tension between them.</p><p>But then Stiles backs down, enough to say, “I don’t – I’m never really sure what to call it. A very actively engaged private investigator, I guess.”</p><p>There is flour still scattered across the counter. With one hand, Derek slowly brushes it into a pile in the center of the tabletop. “So people hire you to … do things.”</p><p>“Basically.”</p><p>“Who brought you to Beacon Hills?”</p><p>“I did.”</p><p>Derek glances at the young man. He is smiling, something wry and a little dark. “Sometimes I give myself assignments. Like the Nemeton.”</p><p>“Melia says nothing can be done.”</p><p>And somehow, Stiles’s smile widens. “So if I fail, I’ll only be disappointing myself.”</p><p>The statement sounds so absurd to Derek that he cannot help huffing a laugh. From the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles blink, stunned, before breaking into laughter of his own – a clear and pure sound of genuine mirth that is strangely magnetic.</p><p>Derek flushes and turns away, playing with the flour on the tabletop until Stiles’s laughter dies. “Is Lydia okay?” Stiles asks.</p><p>Derek nods. “She’s at Boyd’s.”</p><p>“I still can’t believe Boyd let them all move in with him.”</p><p>“Boyd had a large family. I think he misses it.”</p><p>Silence falls. It is more comfortable that Derek would have expected. Stiles stares pensively into his mug of coffee, his lips pressed shut for once.</p><p>The moment breaks with the sound of Derek’s timer going off. Stiles jumps and looks right at Derek, who turns away to fumble for the timer. Derek had not realized he had been staring. There had been something in Stiles’s expression, in the furrow of his brow and the tension in his cheek, that makes Derek feel like there are depths to the man that others seldom get to touch.</p><p>“I need to glaze these,” Derek says.</p><p>Stiles nods, slipping off the stool and bringing his mug to the sink piled high with dirtied baking paraphernalia. “Thanks for the coffee,” he says.</p><p><em>Anytime</em>, Derek thinks. But the word feels scarily like commitment, so Derek settles for nodding and repeatedly glancing after Stiles until he can no longer be seen through the front of the shop.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Lydia has finally convinced Cora that she will not die if she sits on Boyd’s front porch rather than inside the house, and she is just settling in with a book about underworld originating supernatural forces when the groan of a familiar old Jeep reaches her ears. Half a minute later, Stiles pulls into Boyd’s driveway, waving enthusiastically at Lydia as he parks.</p><p>“Stiles,” Lydia chides as the lanky man clambers out of his car. She is simultaneously annoyed and pleased that he has come to see her – and his appearance is obviously for her, given that he pulls out a bouquet of flowers and a glass tupperware of some sort of casserole before bounding up the steps to her side.</p><p>“Derek said you were okay, but I had to see for myself,” Stiles says. Interesting, that Stiles stopped by the bakery before coming here; something must have changed between Lydia’s alpha and Stiles.</p><p>“Smart of you, to not trust Derek’s word,” Lydia says loftily.</p><p>Stiles laughs, and Lydia reaches out to take the flowers from him. Upon closer inspection, they are all flowers that, when met with certain spells and charms, encourage recovery and calm. God, is there anything that Stiles doesn’t think of?</p><p>“So how are you?” Stiles asks.</p><p>Lydia shrugs. Stiles scans her up and down, his gaze clinical and calculating, but Lydia knows he will not find anything. She took care when she dressed herself, in a lightweight turtleneck and jeans more appropriate for fall than summer, to cover the bruises that the witch left on her. Mottled green and purple flesh draw pity and sympathy, two emotions that Lydia does not wish to deal with.</p><p>“Did you go into the station yet?”</p><p>Lydia shakes her head. Boyd will take her when he leaves for his shift, and he arranged for Jordan to take Lydia back afterwards. “She’s not the one in charge,” Lydia says.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The witch who’s doing all of the sacrifices. She’s working for someone else.”</p><p>Stiles drums his fingers against his tupperware. “Do you think that could be why so many hunters are in the area? That they could be tracking her and the person she works for?”</p><p>It certainly is not impossible – but. “If they have, I don’t know how she’s survived this long,” Lydia says. “She thought Danny was a magus, which is a flattering but gross overestimation of his abilities, so I can’t imagine she can outwit hunters long enough to amass an entire gang of them going after her.”</p><p>Stiles hums in agreement and then lifts the tupperware still in his hand. “Do you want some of this right now?” Stiles asks. “I can warm some up, would only take a minute.”</p><p>Lydia does not feel that hungry, but Stiles looks so earnest, almost doe-eyed, that she caves. “Why not,” she says.</p><p>Stiles breaks into a grin, bending over to press a kiss to the top of her head. He pauses when he pulls back, noticing the book on her lap. “Interesting topic,” he says, curiosity in his tone.</p><p>Lydia smiles blithely. “Just wanted some light reading,” she says easily. Stiles snorts and heads inside, calling out a greeting as he does so.</p><p>Lydia flips to the back of her book and starts searching the index for hellhounds.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Though the interview at the station is fairly easy as far as police questionings go, the event is still tedious and aggravating enough to put Lydia in a bad mood by the end of it. Posing the same question in different words will not make Lydia suddenly recall things she cannot remember, but it does not stop people from trying that tactic anyway.</p><p>Lydia slams the door of the interview room on Shivam’s apologetic expression and has just started stalking down the hall when Jordan rounds the corner. She is surprised by his sudden appearance – she had been too busy fuming to realize the weight at the base of her skull, already heavy from being in the station at the same time as Jordan, had become heavier – but even more so by the fact that <em>Jordan</em> does not seem surprised.</p><p>They meet each other in the middle of the hall. Jordan’s eyes have not left hers, and something new but not completely unwelcome shivers up Lydia’s spine. “You weren’t told which room I was in,” Lydia guesses.</p><p>It comes out more like a statement than a question, and Jordan’s glance at the floor is enough of an answer. “Did Shivam survive you?” Jordan asks.</p><p>“Shouldn’t you be asking if I survived him?”</p><p>Jordan smiles. “I know you’re made of hardier stuff.”</p><p>Lydia bites back a grin and walks past Jordan, headed for the front entrance without waiting for him to catch up. He falls in step with her easily, and Lydia lets her arm knock into his as she readjusts the strap of her purse. “Are you off duty now?”</p><p>“Yes. Why?”</p><p>Fuck all if Lydia knows why. She just wants to know. “Nothing,” she says primly.</p><p>Jordan’s car is not in the parking lot, so Lydia is not surprised to be lead to a cruiser. Jordan opens the passenger’s side for her, and Lydia sinks into the well-worn leather, not even bothering to adjust the seat that was previously occupied by someone much larger than her. They drive in silence, and Lydia lets herself drift, until they are halfway to Boyd’s house and Jordan asks, “Is your head feeling alright?”</p><p>Lydia startles. Her hand has crept up the side of her neck so that her fingers can press against the weight on the back of her head. “Yes,” she replies, deliberately pulling her hand down.</p><p>She is acutely aware of Jordan’s presence – not just the weight at the back of her head, but also of the body sitting on the other side of the gearshift. Jordan is back to watching the road intently, so Lydia brazenly stares at him, studying him from his golden hair to the tip of his nose to the bump of his Adam’s apple. He is handsome, in a mid-1900s US military recruitment poster way, which – Lydia has her opinions on the US military, but those posters knew what was up when it came to strong, attractive men in uniform.</p><p>“Do you think the BHPD should look to bring a witch onto staff?” Lydia asks.</p><p>“They looked into it, a few years before I joined,” Jordan replies. “But with Melia here, there’s no one who wants to leave their established homes and give up their status as most powerful witch in the area.”</p><p>“What about Danny?”</p><p>“Danny isn’t interested in joining the team. In any case, his specialties won’t do much for homicides and the other types of extreme crime where we’d usually want a witch to consult.”</p><p>Lydia frowns. “Danny has a speciality?”</p><p>“Yes. Horticulture.”</p><p>Lydia is not sure horticulture is a particularly witch-y speciality, but then again, Danny is not a powerful witch. Perhaps a green thumb is the most his magic extends to. Perhaps Lydia should talk to Danny about more than just the town gossip.</p><p>Which, Lydia suddenly remembers –</p><p>“Stiles talked to Danny about asking you out on a date.”</p><p>Jordan splutters and nearly clips the curb on the right-hand turn onto Cuttlebuck Lane. “That’s – flattering.”</p><p>Lydia smirks. She decides she likes the flush spreading across Jordan’s cheeks. “He asked if you had any supernatural relatives who’d defend your honor or enforce an immediate hand-fasting.”</p><p>A laugh bursts out of Jordan, catching Lydia by surprise. “Oh, he didn’t mean it, then,” Jordan says. “I told him some time ago I wasn’t always human.”</p><p>“Has he figured it out?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>Jordan pulls into Boyd’s driveway and cuts the engine. Through the living room window, Lydia can see Cora and Isaac sitting on the couch, facing each other with their legs tangled over the middle cushion. “You don’t seem bothered,” Lydia observes.</p><p>She looks over to find Jordan already staring at her. “I’ve been here long enough,” he says simply. “If people suddenly change their minds about me, they’re probably not people I want to stay close with anyway.” He frowns. “Are you sure your head is feeling all right?”</p><p>“Yes,” Lydia answers hurriedly, jerking her hand from the back of her head to the door handle. She shoves open the door and absolutely does not stumble on her way out. “Thank you for the ride,” she blurts before slamming the door and striding for Boyd’s front door.</p><p>As soon as she is inside, Lydia presses her back against the front door, digging her shoulder blades into the solid wood. She concentrates on the weight at the base of her skull, waiting until it has fully receded before fixing her hair and adjusting her shirt. “Calm down,” she mutters to herself, even as she is acutely aware of her heart beating in her chest. So <em>what</em>, if for a split second, she maybe wanted to tell Jordan just how connected she always been to him?</p><p>Falling to pieces has never quite been Lydia’s style, so she takes a stabilizing breath and beelines for Boyd’s study, where a handwritten list of research questions and a stack of small books to supplement her reading from this morning await her. She <em>will</em> figure this thing out; it is only a matter of time.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Stiles has been so tired of late that, if he is not actively trying to figure out the Nemeton or Lydia’s kidnapping (without the help of Melia or the BHPD, because neither trusts him with town secrets yet), his brain switches to autopilot so his mind can take a brief respite while his body just does things. It is because of this autopilot that Stiles is about to take a massive bite of his sandwich before his brain cells wake up enough to make him freeze, set down the sandwich, and grab the jar of mustard from his fridge. He twists of the screw-cap, takes a sniff, squints to see the contents of the jar –</p><p>Yup. Someone’s tampered with his mustard.</p><p>Stiles sighs heavily and shuts the fridge. He grabs his sandwich at the exact moment his doorbell rings, and that is how he ends up with his spoiled dinner in fist as he blinks owlishly at Derek Hale on his front stoop.</p><p>Derek pointedly stares at the sandwich but apparently decides it is not worth mentioning. “Hi,” he says gruffly. And then does not continue.</p><p>Off his expression alone, Stiles is not sure whether Derek is going to be pleasant or grouchy in this interaction; in case it is the latter, Stiles decides he might as well multitask. “Hi, Derek,” he says and drifts back into the kitchen.</p><p>He pops open the trash and dumps the sandwich before moving onto the contaminated mustard, using a knife to scrape the majority of it into the bin. He hears the front door shut, and Derek eventually appears, eyebrows furrowed deeply. “What are you doing?” he asks.</p><p>“It was good mustard, too,” Stiles laments. “I splurged on this shit, and now, more than half the jar – poof.”</p><p>He turns to the sink to wash out the rest of the jar, forgoing a sponge in favor of using two fingers to scrape at the curves that the knife could not reach.</p><p>“Mustard takes a while to go bad,” Derek says, confusion thick in his tone.</p><p>Stiles laughs emptily. Is his vision blurring? He cannot read the label on the mustard jar. God, he is far too exhausted. “It was poisoned, Derek.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Hemlock, wolfsbane, some other shit, et cetera.”</p><p>“<em>Poisoned?</em>”</p><p>Stiles drops the jar into his recycling bin, where it clinks against several other condiment jars. This is the fourth poisoning attempt in the last two weeks. The lack of originality is becoming just sad. “Someone’s trying to kill me.”</p><p>He turns and leans against the counter to watch Derek’s face as he processes the information. Stiles has discovered that he enjoys watching Derek’s expressions.</p><p>They are poor assassination attempts, honestly. Not so poor that Stiles can get a restful night of sleep, but poor enough that, with everything else going on, Stiles does not feel like actively seeking out his would-be murderer and either reasoning with them or ending them. It is not like Stiles has not been the target of an assassin before. He has, and it is annoying but, obviously, survivable.</p><p>“For how long?”</p><p>Derek’s voice breaks Stiles out of his haze. “Uh. A couple days after Boyd was shot, I think.”</p><p>Derek’s jaw works but no words come out. Stiles sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s fine, I’m alive,” he says, and if bitterness leaks into his tone, well. Derek will not be the one to call him out on it.. “Why are you here?”</p><p>“The recipe – but. You’re alone.”</p><p>God, he looks adorable when he is confused. That is downright unfair. Stiles needs more sleep to deal with this. “Yes, I’m alone. What recipe?”</p><p>“Are you sleeping?” Derek persists.</p><p>Oh. Walnut raisin bread. Of course. Stiles turns and drops into a squat so he can dig through his cookbook cabinet, which is overflowing and disorganized as usual. “Yeah, I sleep,” he says drily into the musty cabinet. He grabs the worn-out black binder from the back left corner and hits his head on his way back up.</p><p>“Do you sleep enough?” Derek asks.</p><p>Stiles waves a dismissive hand as the other flips through the page-protectors that encase handwritten recipes. It takes but a moment to find the yellow sheet torn from a legal pad and covered in Stiles’s messy scrawl. The top half of the page is his scratch work, from notes he took of Cora’s description of her mother’s sweet bread to his cross-referenced-against-Google-recipe-proportions math, but the bottom half is legible enough, and besides. Perhaps Derek will appreciate Cora’s own words being on the page.</p><p>Stiles clicks open the binder to remove the page and hand it to Derek. It is only then that it hits Stiles – Derek came over to his house <em>just to ask for a recipe</em>. Like something a 1950s housewife would do with her friend next door.</p><p>Maybe Derek does not hate him anymore.</p><p>Or maybe he still does, given the way Derek is glaring at the proffered recipe.</p><p>“It’s the walnut raisin bread,” Stiles explains. “I assume that’s the recipe you came for.”</p><p>Derek takes a step closer. The only thing between Stiles and those intense hazel eyes is the corner of the kitchen island. “You’re not answering my question, Stiles.”</p><p>Is this the first time Derek has said Stiles’s name to his face? It does something to Stiles. If Stiles were less out of it, he could probably identify exactly what this feeling is. “What’d you ask?” Stiles asks. He reaches up to absently rub his head where he made contact with the cabinet.</p><p>Derek frowns. “Sleeping enough,” he says shortly.</p><p>“Enough is a relative term.”</p><p>Suddenly the kitchen island is no longer a barrier, Derek is all up in his space, Derek is batting Stiles’s hand away from his head, <em>Derek</em> is touching Stiles’s head, and – oh. <em>Oh</em>. That feels better.</p><p>“It really isn’t,” Derek says, unflinching even as he leeches Stiles’s pain.</p><p>“Huh?” Stiles asks. His scalp and head and <em>brain</em> have not felt this relaxed in years. From the corner of his eye, Stiles can see that the veins of Derek’s forearms have turned black, not dissimilar to the effect of wolfsbane in a werewolf’s bloodstream.</p><p>“Enough. Isn’t a relative term.”</p><p>“Is too.”</p><p>Derek pulls away. Stiles expects the pain to come roaring back, but it does not; he just feels less blissed-out and a little more alert. “You can take the recipe. It belongs to the Hales, anyway.”</p><p>Derek stares at the recipe, still not taking it, and Stiles is about to pull it back when the other man blurts, “Come stay at the bakery.”</p><p>Stiles blinks. “Um. No, thank you.”</p><p>Derek glares. “You shouldn’t be alone if someone is trying to kill you.”</p><p>“I’ve lasted this long, haven’t I?”</p><p>“Keep this up and you’ll do their job by dying of exhaustion.”</p><p>Stiles snorts a laugh. Derek is already handsome; it should be illegal for him to also be funny. “I’m more functional than I look,” he promises.</p><p>“<em>Stiles</em>.” There it is again, that funny twist in Stiles’s gut. “Don’t make me tell Lydia.”</p><p>Stiles raises an eyebrow. “I think I can hold my own in an argument with Lydia –”</p><p>“She’ll come here on foot all the way from Boyd’s.”</p><p>God, no, Stiles does not want that. Not when Lydia is still recovering from her kidnapping, not when Boyd lives almost on the opposite side of town from Stiles, and – and, oh, God, Derek already <em>gets</em> Stiles more than Stiles thought he did.</p><p>Stiles looks up at Derek, and though Derek’s lips are still a flat line, Stiles <em>swears</em> there is something smug in his expression. “You don’t fight fair,” Stiles pouts. Pouts, because in the back of his mind, he is already compiling a packing list long enough to require two overlarge duffle bags.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>The first night he stays in the apartment above Whittemore Bakery, Stiles does not sleep a wink, because how can he possibly relax when he is set up on a couch mere feet from Derek Hale’s bedroom door? In any case, Stiles has never slept easy the first night in a new environment, and though he pretends to be asleep when Derek wakes at 4:15 to go down to the bakery, he knows he could not have actually fooled the alpha werewolf.</p><p>The second night, though. Stiles passes out before nine and sleeps for fourteen hours <em>straight</em>.</p><p>He wakes with the throw pillow’s stitch pattern imprinted on the side of his face and a vague sense that he is being watched. Sure enough, when he rubs the sleep out of his eyes, Lydia Martin is perched on the coffee table in front of him with a glare cold enough to induce frostbite.</p><p>“Were you not going to tell anyone that you’re the target of an assassin?”</p><p>“Good morning to you, too,” Stiles mumbles. He clumsily pushes himself upright, his back protesting against the movement. Nothing like a deep recovery sleep to get the muscles aching; Stiles is feeling knots that he did not even realize were there.</p><p>Lydia is wearing a scarf rather than a turtleneck today, but Stiles can see part of a mottled bruise wrapped around the side of her neck. The sight makes Stiles want to hurt something or bake a dozen casseroles, whichever will cause the most healing the quickest.</p><p>Lydia picks up on his staring and subtly rearranges her hair to cover the bruise. “You should tell people about things like that,” she reprimands.</p><p>Stiles grins widely. “Aw, Lyds. You want me to stay alive?”</p><p>“I don’t want you do die.” Her haughty expression morphs into something more somber. “I’ve already written more eulogies than I’d like.”</p><p>Stiles bites his lip. He has just woken up, and he has not even had his coffee, but God, he wants to ask –</p><p>Lydia huffs. “What’s your question?”</p><p>Looks like Derek is not the only one who can read Stiles better than Stiles expected. “Who for?”</p><p>Lydia abruptly stands and rounds the couch to cross to the small kitchen. Stiles watches her as she pulls dishes and utensils from cupboards seemingly at random, until he almost gives up on her answering, but then she sets a kettle on the stovetop and says, so quietly he almost misses it, “Jackson Whittemore.”</p><p>“Whittemore Bakery,” Stiles responds.</p><p>Lydia nods. Kettle started, she starts pulling out food to join the kitchenware, keeping her hands busy as she narrates in a monotone. “We were seventeen. It was a year from hell. Jackson was bitten. He turned into a kanima. We saved him, and I killed his … <em>master</em>. We made plans to come here, to Beacon Hills, after we graduated. But then a roving pack came through our town, followed by hunters, and Jackson –”</p><p>She cuts herself off. Her voice is steady, but her eyes are wide and her hands are shaking, so Stiles gets up and takes the knife from Lydia’s hands, resuming her task of cutting onions and peppers. Lydia glances at him for a moment before drifting over to the stove and fiddling with the kettle.</p><p>“Jackson was killed in crossfire. I saw it, and I … <em>screamed</em>. Didn’t realize what I was until that moment. I had to run, so I started heading north, to here. Wrote and read a eulogy the first time I had the opportunity to pause and breathe, burned the eulogy, and then kept going.”</p><p>The sound of Stiles’s knife hitting the cutting board is deafening in the silence, but his hands do not want to stop. <em>Seventeen years old</em>, he thinks. When he was seventeen, it took the Sheriff, Melissa, Chris, Allison, and Scott just to keep Stiles alive. Lydia lived through downright trauma and made it out on her own. Stiles can barely wrap his mind about it.</p><p>Hands bat Stiles away from the cutting board and take the knife from him. “You’re cutting them unevenly,” Lydia scolds, frowning at Stiles’s <em>perfectly fine</em> peppers.</p><p>“They’re still edible,” Stiles automatically protests. Lydia smiles and shakes her head fondly.</p><p>For a moment, Stiles gets caught up in watching Lydia, from the wisps of strawberry blonde hair she keeps blowing out of her face to the steady, confident movement of her fingers across the cutting board. Whatever almost-loss of composure she had moments ago is gone without a trace, but Stiles –</p><p>Stiles is overwhelmed. He tries not to think about it, because he knows he has a tendency to spiral out into dark places, but sometimes, he will hear a story like this from someone he cares about, and he becomes re-convinced that the world is just a really shitty place. When it gets really bad – when the sleep deprivation becomes too much, when the case files stack up too high, when the blood crusted under his fingernails seems permanent – he sometimes contemplates giving up. Let everything crash and burn, because that is where entropy leads anyway, right?</p><p>But other people still hold hope, and it is for them that Stiles tucks away the darker thoughts and continues to do the things he does. Compartmentalizing and powering through is the mindset that has kept him going this far.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Lyds,” Stiles says.</p><p>Lydia meets his eyes, and something passes between them, though exactly what, Stiles cannot name. “Don’t die on me, Stilinski,” she says seriously.</p><p>The kettle starts whistling, and Lydia motions with her head for Stiles to take care of it. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he tells her earnestly, and when he drops a kiss on top of her head as he passes, he swears he catches the young woman smile.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>VI.</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>A week passes since Lydia was kidnapped before her excessively paranoid, self-appointed caretaker (read: Derek) allows her to move back into the apartment from Boyd’s. Lydia is initially amazed by how easily Stiles has integrated himself into their home, but she soon realizes she has no reason to be surprised. <em>Adaptability</em> is Stiles’s middle name, right after <em>sheer determination</em>. What is more entertaining and enlightening is observing how Derek reacts to all of this – <em>this</em> being a non-pack member living in their space, and specifically Stiles living in their space.</p><p>Whatever belligerence and resentment Derek once held for Stiles has entirely disappeared. If Lydia happens to finish closing the front of the shop quickly enough, she is able to beat Derek to the apartment and can therefore witness how Derek ever-so-slightly relaxes when he walks through the door and catches his first whiff of whatever Stiles is cooking up for dinner. Derek will shower and change, and when he reemerges from his room he will not join Lydia at the kitchen counter, but Lydia can tell he never makes much progress in the book he pretends to be reading in the living room. With his ear tilted towards the kitchen, it is obvious that he, like Lydia, is listening to Stiles ramble.</p><p>“Stiles, what do you do all day?” Lydia asks one evening. She pokes at the legal pad covered in an illegible scrawl that sits next to her on the kitchen counter. More and more of these legal pads have been appearing ever since Stiles moved in.</p><p>“Research, mostly,” Stiles answers, deftly shucking corn husks into the bin, “Either here or at the library. If I get too restless, I’ll go to my place and work on renovations.”</p><p>“Alone?” Derek rumbles from the living room.</p><p>Stiles rolls his eyes, but he is almost smiling, as if he recognizes that Derek gets constipated whenever he tries to show that he cares. “I’m an adult, and I can handle myself,” he replies, “but Erica, Isaac, and Cora usually join me.”</p><p>And so on and so forth – Lydia watches Stiles dance around the kitchen and Derek dance around his feelings. And then there is her, dancing around the fact thatevery evening, she has been getting increasingly painful headaches that chase her to bed earlier and earlier.</p><p>It is not until Thursday that everything finally <em>snaps</em>. One blink, she is sitting on the living room couch – the next blink, pain explodes at the nape of her neck so excruciatingly that she see stars – and the third blink –</p><p><em>It is dark</em>. She has a vague sense that she is indoors, but Lydia can also feel a cold draft coming from her right. This cannot be her reality – her reality is the over-stuffed sofa in front of the coffee table that Derek built with his own hands – and yet this feels like no dream.</p><p>A door creaks open. Lydia turns her head to find the sound, and though her neck and head move, though she can feel the strain of her muscles, what she sees remains unchanging: just a blurred gray carpet, but distorted by something that is making what she sees swirl in soft eddies, like a rotted version of <em>Starry Night</em> come to life.</p><p>“<em>We leave at 11. Team A – </em>”</p><p>It is a young voice, aping authority through volume rather than conviction in tone. Again, Lydia tries to face the voice, and while her body responds, what she sees remains unchanged.</p><p>“– <em>Sector 2, approach from southwest</em>.”</p><p>Suddenly what Lydia can see shifts down, revealing pale forearms resting against legs clad with black denim jeans. The two hands – slender, with impeccable dark nail polish – coil lengths and lengths of natural rope, rope that triggers familiarity and dread in Lydia’s gut.</p><p>“<em>And then Blake</em> – ”</p><p>“Lydia!”</p><p>A force slams into Lydia’s chest, and she recoils into the back of the couch – the couch in their living room, in the apartment above the bakery. She gasps, rubbing her chest where there cannot actually be a real bruise forming though that is what it feels like, and slowly registers that Derek is kneeling in front of her, worry in his eyes, as Stiles hovers next to him with a glass of water in hand.</p><p>“Lydia?” Derek asks, offering his hands to her.</p><p>Lydia takes them and presses her alpha’s palms flat against her thighs, applying pressure until he understands her intent and pushes down himself. “Call Boyd,” she says urgently. “There’s going to be a sacrifice tonight.”</p><p>Derek looks up at Stiles, and before a word passes his parted lips, Stiles is nodding and pulling out his cell phone, drifting towards the kitchen but not before handing Lydia the glass of water.</p><p>Lydia takes a few careful sips, rerunning what she just saw through her head again and again to commit it to memory. Once she is sure she has it all, she sets down her water and puts a hand over one of Derek’s. “We need to go to Melia’s,” she says.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Fifteen minutes later, Lydia is sitting in a padded chair in Melia’s office. It took fifteen minutes rather than five because Stiles and Derek spent a long time arguing over whether Stiles should stay at the apartment (Derek’s point) or help find and stop the witch (Stiles’s point). Lydia stayed out of it, mostly because she was trying to concentrate on remembering what the witch showed her – Lydia is now convinced that this is the reason why the witch abducted her – but also because she knew from the start that the arguing men would come to the compromise they did: Stiles would come to the apothecary, but he would help Lydia return to the apartment while Derek went out.</p><p>Now, Stiles and Derek are being held at bay in the main shop by Danny, with Boyd and Shivam also standing by. If she strains, Lydia can just make out the sound of their tight, agitated conversation.</p><p>A flame jumps to life in the corner of the room, and Lydia turns her attention to what Melia is doing.</p><p>There are a combination of herbs, bones, and crystals spread across Melia’s work station, and Lydia watches as Melia warms a crystal over a small flame. “You said the image was not still, yes?” Melia asks Lydia, though her eyes do not leave the work in front of her.</p><p>“Yes. It was swirling, like eddies in water.”</p><p>Melia nods. She removes the crystal from the flame, then places it in a small burlap pouch along with several bones and a tablespoon of various herbs. She ties off the pouch with twine that looks distressingly similar to the rope that has been a recurring feature in Lydia’s most recent nightmares, and then returns to stand in front of Lydia. “Hold this,” Melia instructs.</p><p>The pouch is preternaturally warm to the touch, and it gives off a soothing aura. Lydia forgets, sometimes, with the Nemeton’s influence always so near, constant, and strong, that magic and auras can feel warm and hopeful. Melia’s wrinkled hands guide Lydia’s to fully wrap around the pouch and then rest on her lap, close to her groin.</p><p>“I believe that the serum that Jordan Parrish gave to you caught the last moments of the witch’s spell settling,” Melia explains. “The spell has still connected you, presumably in one direction: she can reach you and share with you that which she wants you to see. But the eddies mean the connection is imperfect, which might also mean that the intended directionality is impaired.”</p><p>“So you could share with her what I’m seeing?” Lydia asks.</p><p>“Yes, in theory. But what I want to try is teasing open the connection, so her sight leaks back to us.”</p><p>The pouch seems to be growing warmer between Lydia’s palms. “Okay,” Lydia says. “I’m ready.”</p><p>Melia folds her withered hands over Lydia’s, looks into her eyes, and begins to chant. The witch’s eyes turn gold, similar to the way that Boyd’s do when he shifts, but the gold does not stop at her iris: the luminescence expands to cover the entirety of both of her eyes, and then spreads, like a glimmering flush, just beneath her skin, until Melia’s entire body seems radiant. Lydia involuntarily trembles; this is what it feels like to be near a source of pure power.</p><p>Lydia begins to hear sounds from beyond this room, snatches of voices, of branches breaking, of undergrowth rustling. Mirages pass before her eyes for a moment – men and women in dark clothing holding guns, stars pinpricking through foliage, pale hands tightly gripping wound rope – but try as she can, Lydia cannot hold on to an image long enough to make sense of it. She wonders why Melia is not showing signs of frustration, and it stupidly is not until a grim smile begins to curl Melia’s lips that Lydia realizes: Melia is not letting Lydia see anything that she is. Melia is blocking Lydia out of her own conscious.</p><p>Rage spikes hot through Lydia’s blood – why can’t she be trusted? – and either by coincidence or through sensing it on another level, Melia immediately squeezes Lydia’s hands, hard enough that Lydia feels her bones and ligaments grind. The pouch in Lydia’s grip flares white hot, enough to burn, and just when Lydia is about to screech from the pain, Melia lets go.</p><p>The golden light retreats from Melia’s skin to her eyes until it disappears entirely, and the pouch in Lydia’s hand cools. Lydia blinks, panting, from an exertion she did not realize she was putting out. Slowly, she unclenches her fists. Small heat blisters dot her fingers and palms, and a smoke that somehow smells heavenly, rather than like singed flesh, rises from the pouch.</p><p>Lydia looks up only to see Melia already shambling from the room. When Lydia tries to stand, her muscles tremble too violently for her to raise herself off the seat. She struggles to control her breathing, all the while straining to hear the conversation happening in the front of the shop. She thinks she hears Derek raise his voice, once, but otherwise she can only hear mumbling at best. The next clear sound is the bell of the front door, two loud sneezes that must be Boyd and Derek, and then footsteps returning to her.</p><p>Melia enters first, still shuffling oddly. “What the hell?” Lydia spits at her. Stiles appears in the door next, his brows furrowed as he carefully takes in the scene.</p><p>The witch smiles, clearly having decided to ignore Lydia’s ire. “Thank you, Lydia,” she says serenely. She plucks the used pouch from Lydia’s lap and replaces it with a salve she must have grabbed from the front of the store. “You did a wonderful job.”</p><p>“I feel used,” Lydia retorts.</p><p>Stiles suddenly darts forward, gently lifting Lydia’s arm by the wrist to inspect her hands. “Melia,” he says, his voice tight and low in a way that Lydia has never heard but instantly knows means danger for someone else.</p><p>“Apply that twice daily,” Melia says lightly. She coughs, and only then do two important details occur to Lydia: Melia is still here, and Melia is, like Lydia, still recovering her breath. Melia has only done one thing tonight, and there are twisted forces threatening the very town that Melia has sworn to protect, yet Melia is staying in while the town alpha and the BHPD go out.</p><p>Melia is getting <em>weak</em>.</p><p>Stiles looks like he is about to start arguing, but Lydia suddenly feels the need to leave. She is <em>tired</em>. “Stiles,” she says, gingerly touching his forearm, and he comprehends what she needs before she has even said it, pocketing the salve and helping her out of the chair.</p><p>Leaning most of her weight on him, Lydia is able to shuffle to the front of the store. Melia follows them at a slight distance; the only sounds are the scrape of shoes on wooden floor and the labored breath of the two women. When Lydia and Stiles reach the door, Lydia looks back.</p><p>Melia stares at her, expression hard, but Lydia feels as though she has witnessed a truth she can no longer unsee. Standing amid the worn wood of the apothecary’s tall shelves, Melia has never looked closer to her actual 178 years.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>They follow Melia’s directions to a section of Puckett Road that does not seem particularly distinguishable to Derek, but Boyd’s eyes flash gold when he parks his cruiser. “This is near where Stiles found me,” Boyd says.</p><p>Derek makes a noise of acknowledgement. Most of his attention is on the preserve, his ears and nose alert for anything unusual. Sometimes he thinks he hears a voice, but the following silence makes him think he has imagined it. Sometimes, he feels a tremor go over his skin, his wolf’s connection to his pack’s territory sensing that something is off. As always, underneath all the rest, the Nemeton’s twisted energy strokes at the edges of Derek’s mind, probing at the deepest of his wolf’s instincts.</p><p>Close behind them are Isaac, Erica, and Cora, with Cora driving their father’s Camaro. Their group wastes no time piling into the woods, plunging deep into the preserve. Melia directed them south, and Derek takes the lead. He is so intent on following what little hints there are of other non-animal beings in the preserve that it takes him more time than it really should for Derek to sense other presences flickering at the edge of his metaphysical awareness: along with the flames of Boyd, Lydia, and Cora, Isaac and Erica flit like shadows at the edge of his consciousness.</p><p>They are a mile in when Derek hears, off to the right, a scream. He freezes, breathes in, and smells –</p><p><em>Blood</em>.</p><p>Derek growls, and he sees his pack – oh, God, how are they his <em>pack?</em> – flash their eyes in response.</p><p>In a blink, they have shifted and taken off at a sprint. He is only in his beta form, but even that heightens Derek’s senses, letting him hear more voices than just the pained screams, shouts of what must be the others that Lydia had seen, a softer but insistent rumbling that can only be an incantation. The scent of wood and blood suddenly mixes with fear, sweat, and gunmetal. Derek wants to howl, to galvanize the other werewolves running with him, but he keeps it inside; they cannot alert the witch and the hunters that they are coming. It almost does not matter, anyway, as Derek can feel the energy thrumming between the bonds of the pack. They get closer, and closer, and the voices get clearer and the scent becomes cloyingly thick and then –</p><p>Nothing?</p><p>Derek immediately stops. Isaac is not as quick to halt, and Cora has to grab him by the waist to keep him from tumbling over himself. “What the fuck?” Erica asks, quietly but viciously.</p><p>“Split off,” Derek directs. “Boyd with Erica, Cora with Isaac, to the left and to the right. Branch out for five minutes and come back in three. We’ll keep doing that until we find something – I’ll stay straight.”</p><p>Boyd gives him a questioning look, and Derek nods. He is okay with being alone. “Go,” Derek says, and the betas scatter.</p><p>Derek shrugs a discomfort off of his shoulders and surges forward. They actually <em>listened</em>, but Derek can have a crisis about that later.</p><p>Time seems to stretch thin, each second drawn out long enough to contain three breaths. All Derek can hear or smell is the preserve as it usually is, wooded and, at this point in the summer, just starting to smell like natural decay. Boyd and Erica circle back to him first with no news; Cora and Isaac follow them not even a minute later. Boyd and Erica have just returned for the second time when Derek hears a howl that he would recognize anywhere, even in its new, matured state: his younger sister calling for him.</p><p>Derek only has to look at Boyd and Erica before they are all sprinting off. Three minutes later, it is apparent that they are too late.</p><p>Cora and Isaac stand back to back, though one set of their hands remains clasped. Cora, looking as shuttered and blank as the last time she had come to a scene with Derek, is facing Derek and his betas as they approach; it is Isaac who is watching what remains of the victim. Derek briefly presses his forehead against Cora’s before approaching the body.</p><p>Derek cannot smell the fresh corpse until he is only an arm’s length away, and then, it is only the victim that he can smell. It reminds him of when Lydia was abducted, and he had raced to the park only to find the area wiped clean. The witch must know that she is working against werewolves; she knows them even if they do not know her.</p><p>Derek feels Boyd approach him.</p><p>“We were close,” Boyd says.</p><p><em>Close, but another life lost</em>, is the shared, unspoken sentiment. Derek nods stiffly and lets the wolf roll off of him. “Can you call in to your team?” he asks.</p><p>“Will do.”</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>It takes about an hour and half for BHPD to arrive, take statements, and clear the scene. As soon as Derek is done giving his report to Parrish, he goes to his sister’s side. She seems to be more collected again, due in no small part, Derek is fairly sure, to the grounding exercises that Isaac has been walking her through.</p><p>When Derek first met and turned Isaac, he remembers the young man – then a teenager – as skittish, uncertain, traumatized. Isaac has changed much in the eight years since Derek irrevocably changed his life, Derek recognizes, and while he still gives off an air of uncertainty, with his sideways looks and hunched shoulders and hesitantly polite manners, Derek has noticed that a calm confidence emerges when Isaac’s energy is focused on someone else, particularly with Cora and Erica.</p><p>When BHPD tells the pack they can go, they all return to Boyd’s house. Erica is immediately rifling through the fridge, Isaac close behind her, and Boyd puts on a kettle before heading upstairs to shower.</p><p>Derek calls Lydia and is surprised that the phone picks up after the first ring. “Are you not sleeping?” he asks.</p><p>“It’s Stiles.”</p><p>“Stiles,” Derek echoes.</p><p>There is a pause when Derek’s brain tries to reboot. Before Derek is fully back, Stiles asks, “Didn’t catch her?”</p><p>“How did you know?” Derek’s question is more curious than hostile. It no longer shocks him when Stiles knows things Derek thought he had no means to know.</p><p>There is a soft sigh from the other end of the line. “I don’t know. Something in your voice.”</p><p><em>That</em> startles Derek, but he decides to ignore it. “How’s Lydia?”</p><p>“Uh, she’s sleeping. Melia wiped her pretty good. And Lydia’s not very happy with Melia right now, either.”</p><p>“Lydia’s rarely happy with Melia.”</p><p>“Shocker.”</p><p>Derek huffs a short laugh, and something in his chest pinches when he hears Stiles also laugh in a tired way. “We’re at Boyd’s,” Derek says. “I’ll be back by morning.”</p><p>“Okay. Get some sleep.”</p><p><em>Only if you do</em>, Derek’s mind immediately supplies. Derek pauses, and in the time it takes for him to decide that <em>You, too</em>, is probably a better response, Stiles has already hung up. Derek sighs and sets his phone on the counter before drifting to the living room.</p><p>Cora is horizontal on the couch, arms wrapped around a pillow and half-asleep. “Der,” she slurs against the armrest.</p><p>Derek perches on the edge of the couch, reaching out to stroke her hair. “How are you?”</p><p>“Fine.” Cora wriggles, burrowing into the cushions and shutting her eyes. “Do you ever –?” She cuts herself off.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Never mind. It’s whatever.”</p><p>“<em>Cora</em>.” Derek wets his lips, for some reason nervous to give her his most natural response. “Wolves have no secrets.”</p><p>Cora snorts. “Mom said that all the time.”</p><p>“So tell me.”</p><p>“Do you ever think you smell the scents of people who passed a long time ago?”</p><p>Derek frowns. “Like. A cemetery?”</p><p>“Ugh, Derek, no. No. Like – like Mom, or Dad. Laura.”</p><p>Derek shakes his head. “Sometimes I hear them. Especially Mom.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“Get some rest, okay?” Derek says. “And – thank you. For being there tonight.”</p><p>Her eyes are already closing. “’Course, big alpha bro.”</p><p>A smile ghosts across Derek’s lips. One day, he promises himself, he and Cora are going to sit down and talk, about her life, about his life, about the way things once were, and about the way they want things to be. But for the moment, his little sister needs rest, so he settles for kissing her forehead before leaving her to sleep.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Stiles does not sleep. It was fine when he was focusing on getting Lydia back to the apartment, applying the salve to her hands (which, honestly, look horrific, not that he is going to tell Lydia that), and convincing her to drink water and go to bed. It was fine when he had something, someone else to focus on. But then Lydia mercifully fell asleep, and Stiles was left to fret. The phone call from Derek offered some relief, but only just enough to let Stiles breathe easier.</p><p>He tosses and turns on the couch until three in the morning, at which point he gives up, takes a quick shower, and tosses on comfortable clothing before slipping downstairs to the bakery. It takes him a minute to find and flick on the lights and the dinky radio. As classical music crackles through the space, Stiles locates a beaten binder of handwritten recipes. Most of them are on crisp, lined paper in a neat print that Stiles recognizes as Lydia’s; the rest are on scrap paper, with many annotations, alterations, and calculations, that Stiles guesses are by Derek. His handwriting is fascinating – nearly cursive, but sharper and with more points than loops. Skimming through them, Stiles decides to whack the oven on to 400 degrees and then start brewing coffee.</p><p>Stiles is no stranger to baking, but he doesn’t trust himself to do everything the way Derek does it, so he contents his restless mind and fidgeting hands with consuming coffee and measuring out ingredients. He has lined up what is needed for most of the bakery’s staples when he turns to refill his mug of coffee and nearly has a heart attack when he sees Derek in the doorway.</p><p>“Fuck, you’re too quiet,” Stiles splutters.</p><p>Derek stares, blinking slowly, taking stock of the kitchen. Stiles cannot read his expression, and nervousness – not helped by the lack of sleep and the amount of coffee he has already consumed – compels him to start babbling the way his high school self used to. “I really couldn’t sleep,” he started, “Even after you called, and even though I tried, so I figured I could be useful by coming down here. And I know how to bake, my mom taught me before she died, but I didn’t trust myself to actually put them together in a way that you’d be satisfied with –”</p><p>Derek moves forward to join Stiles at the work surface that occupies the center of the kitchen. Stiles shuts up. This close, Stiles can see that Derek’s dark hair is still wet; he smells like the soap that Erica, Isaac, and Cora have all begun to smell like.</p><p>Derek reaches out and taps one line of bowls that contain pre-measured ingredients. “Mixed berry muffin?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Cheddar, onion, and chive scones?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Vanilla old-fashioned doughnuts.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Derek looks at him, and Stiles’s breath involuntarily catches. Last time they were in this close proximity, Stiles had been yelling at Derek and Derek had slammed Stiles into a car. Last time, Stiles was not able to appreciate the dappled flecks of color in Derek’s hazel eyes and the length of his dark eyelashes.</p><p>“I think I can trust you,” Derek says, voice low so it just barely reaches Stiles.</p><p>Stiles suppresses a shiver. He has been too busy to really think about it for the last few weeks, but the notion that Derek is attractive has never fully left the back of Stiles’s mind. <em>This is unfair,</em> Stiles thinks, as he forces himself to say, “Yeah?”</p><p>“It’s hard to screw up making dough.”</p><p>Stiles blinks. Right. That is what this is about. Stiles resets. “I’m honored,” he says brightly. “Would you like some coffee?”</p><p>He begins to move away, going for the shelf that has a few mismatched mugs, and he is not prepared for his momentum to be stopped by Derek’s hand solidly gripping the nape of his neck. “Stiles,” Derek says, in a way that compels Stiles to turn and look Derek in the eye.</p><p>Derek’s hand squeezes, gently. “Thank you.”</p><p>Stiles nods. “Of course,” he replies.</p><p>Derek’s grips loosens, and Stiles swears, as he turns away, that Derek’s fingertips linger and drag across his shoulder.</p><p>It is easy for them to fall into a rhythm of baking and drinking coffee. After the first couple of doughs make it into the oven, Stiles switches to dishwashing, knocking the radio dial a bit louder on his way to the sink. Most of this early morning is spent dwelling with Debussy and Ravel; it eases the tension in Stiles’s shoulders, and he sometimes hears Derek humming along to the melodies. They spend about a half an hour in comfortable, relative silence before Derek breaks it:</p><p>“I didn’t know your mom died.”</p><p>Stiles scratches his nose. “Yeah. She did.”</p><p>He never knows what it will be like to talk about his mom until he is deep into it. Sometimes he stays detached from whatever he is saying; sometimes he ends up crying, tears of laugher or tears of loss. It helps when his hands are occupied, like they are right now.</p><p>He sneaks a glance over his shoulder. Derek’s eyes are trained on some sort of glaze that he is making, but Stiles is certain that Derek is attentively waiting for Stiles to continue. Stiles turns back to the sink.</p><p>“I was twelve,” he says. “My dad’s house – the house I grew up in – sits back against a forest. My mom had a garden out back that she was always fussing with. Made some incredible salads only from ingredients that she had grown herself.</p><p>“I wasn’t there, when it happened. But one day I came home from Scott’s to see cruisers all over our street – not just Dad’s. I let myself in the house, and Deputy Richter pulled me with her into the kitchen. She explained that my Dad was at the hospital because – because Mom had been hurt.”</p><p>Stiles swallows. They had wanted to let Stiles’s father tell him what had happened, but his dad would get too choked up to finish a sentence for the next two weeks. After that, silence – until he got drunk enough, and then his slurred words would run and run until he passed out on the living room couch.</p><p>Stiles ended up living with the McCalls for most of the following year.</p><p>“Mom had been killed and – uh. Officially, it was a mountain lion, but I found out later it was a wendigo, so. Dad didn’t take it well, and I – I guess I didn’t either. Was anxious all the time, couldn’t sleep, had repeated nightmares about something happening to Dad. I think it was four months later that I got fed up, snuck out of Scott’s house, and knocked on the door of a local retired hunter and begged him to train me.”</p><p>“You knew about hunters?”</p><p>Stiles jumps. He had not noticed Derek coming around to the same side of the kitchen as him, leaning against one of the fridges as he mixes something in a bowl.</p><p>Stiles shakes his head. “Not at first. Took a month to find out about the wendigo, and another to find the local hunters, once I decided I had to do something for Dad.”</p><p>“That’s why you’re not a hunter.”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>Derek drifts into his space, pressing the mixing bowl into Stiles’s body until Stiles takes it, and they smoothly swap places. “This was all for your Dad. Not to become a hunter.”</p><p>Stiles huffs a laugh. “Figured me out, have you? Doing things just to keep alive the people that I need alive.”</p><p>Derek pauses in his washing, making Stiles look up to catch his eye. “I haven’t figured you out,” Derek says, expression more open and honest than Stiles has ever seen it. “I –”</p><p>Stiles waits. He can see the thoughts sorting themselves out in Derek’s eyes, in the twitch of his eyebrows. “I think,” Derek says after a moment, glancing down at his soapy hands, “that I want to.”</p><p>It is not what Stiles expected, but. Hell. “Okay,” he says, grinning, and his heart tugs when Derek, ever so slightly, smiles back.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Stiles sneaks away from the bakery around the 11 AM rush, briefly checking that Lydia is still sleeping before slipping away on foot. He texts Erica, and by the time he is halfway to Puckett Road, he is met by the blonde, who has Isaac and Cora with her. “I thought I said subtle, Erica,” Stiles calls, but he smiles. He is not really annoyed – he likes Isaac and Cora.</p><p>Erica shrugs. “Cora was bored, and Isaac goes wherever Cora goes.”</p><p>Cora punches Erica’s shoulder, and Isaac ducks his head in a poor attempt to hide the blush spreading across his cheeks. “Does Derek know about you two?” Stiles asks and laughs when Isaac yelps and Cora glares.</p><p>“There’s nothing to know,” Cora says stiffly.</p><p>“Uh huh,” Stiles replies, catching Erica’s wink.</p><p>It does not take long to reach Puckett Road and then the preserve. Stiles follows behind the werewolves. Isaac leads; he and Cora were the two who found the body, apparently, but the closer they get to their destination, the more obvious it becomes to Stiles that Cora is not very happy to be returning to the location of the sacrifice.</p><p>Stiles jogs a pace to catch up to her. “How are you doing?” he asks.</p><p>Cora shrugs. Her expression is blank, aside from an unhappy set to her jaw. “I’m fine,” she replies. “I just – stuff like this makes me think about the alphas and the things they did. Not very happy memories.”</p><p>Stiles nods, burying his hands in his pockets. Long before he was hired to save Cora, he had heard through hunter networks of the horrid acts the alpha pack committed, killing and extorting all in the name of more power. Stiles would be lying if he said that was not part of his reason for eliminating the entire pack rather than just grabbing Cora and getting the hell out of there. Not to mention that escaping a pursuer is much easier when the pursuer is dead.</p><p>“We’re here,” Isaac says.</p><p>He drifts back and presses into Cora’s side, and Erica and Stiles push forward. “The body was laid across the tree stump,” Erica tells Stiles. “It looked like his rib cage had been cracked open. Like a lobster?”</p><p>“Erica,” Isaac scolds, repulsed.</p><p>“What? The chest cavity was very open.”</p><p>Stiles crouches by the stump. It is awfully short, as far as stumps go, and oddly free of any bloodstains, especially if the victim’s torso had been destroyed. “You can’t smell anything, right?” he asks Erica.</p><p>The blonde woman shakes her head.</p><p>Stiles squints at the stump. He wishes he were better at identifying plants, but that was always his mom’s thing. The internet will have to help him out – again. He pulls his phone out and begins to take photos.</p><p>“What are you thinking?” Isaac asks.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Stiles replies. “I’m stuck in research mode, since everyone around here seems intent on shutting me out of anything official.”</p><p>“Need us to work on that?” Erica asks.</p><p>Stiles squats to peel off a bit of bark. “What do you mean by that?”</p><p>“Erica wants an excuse to talk to Boyd,” Isaac says.</p><p>“I don’t need an excuse,” Erica retorts. “Boyd likes you, Stiles. So does Parrish. I think you haven’t putting enough pressure where you should be.”</p><p>“Maybe,” Stiles concedes. He carefully stores the bark peelings in his flannel pocket and stands up. “It just – look, I’m from a small town like this. We don’t respond well to pressure from outsiders, and if you fuck up, you’ve made yourself a target for forever. I don’t want to be driven out of a town by pitchforks and emergency vehicles again.”</p><p>“Pitchforks and emergency vehicles?” Erica echoes.</p><p>“Again?” Isaac asks.</p><p>Stiles waves a dismissive hand. “I might be exaggerating. Who knows, who cares.” He casts one more a look around. The preserve really is a beautiful place, a dense and rich collection of diverse greenery and wildlife. It is horrifying and saddening to think about what awful atrocities have been committed in these woods, both as of late and for as long as the Nemeton has been spreading its twisted influence.</p><p>“Anything else?” Stiles asks the betas.</p><p>They all take one more moment to concentrate their senses. Stiles catches when Cora wrinkles her nose, and he raises an eyebrow at her.</p><p>She shakes her head. “I’ve been smelling weird things since I got here,” she says.</p><p>“It’s that perfume Erica’s been wearing to seduce Boyd,” Isaac quips.</p><p>Erica growls, and Isaac cackles before taking off, Erica chasing after him. Stiles smiles at Cora, who laughs and shakes her head. “They’re children,” she says, disgustedly fond.</p><p>“The best way to be,” Stiles replies, poking her ribs, and she smacks his hand but falls in step as they follow after Erica and Isaac.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>VII.</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Derek is about to start free-handing the message <em>Happy Birthday, You Old Bastard,</em> on Mrs. Benoit’s annual chocolate torte to her husband when he is interrupted, again, by a call from the front of the bakery:</p><p>“Derek? Can you come here?”</p><p>Derek sighs, sets down his piping bag, and pokes halfway through the shutter doors. “What?” he asks.</p><p>Stiles gestures for him to come all the way out, to where he has haphazardly spread an alarming number of books, journals, and loose graph paper across the half of the ordering counter that does not have the register behind it. If Lydia were here, she would make Stiles move because his lower half is obstructing customer view of the pastry case built into the counter. But Lydia is not here, having left earlier this morning after demanding Parrish’s number from Derek, and besides, Derek does not mind that Stiles is close enough that, when his muttering to himself gets particularly agitated, Derek can hear him from the kitchen. Derek admits he might have turned off the radio in order to better hear Stiles.</p><p>He would never admit that the rise and fall of Stiles’s ceaseless rambling has, somehow, becoming a comforting addition to the usual ambient noises of the bakery.</p><p>Stiles is holding one of the journals out to Derek. The pages are weathered and worn, but not so much that the ink of what appears to be a registry is too faded to read. “Can you believe Beacon Hills once had a guy on payroll just to register the ‘Greenery and Vegetation of Note’ around town?” Stiles asks.</p><p>Derek snorts at the unveiled fascination in Stiles’s tone. Stiles gets excited about the strangest things; Derek can never predict what the next thing will be that gets Stiles to call him over. “I’m sure Beacon Hills used to be smaller,” he says.</p><p>“What small town government has the municipal funds for that?”</p><p>Derek shakes his head, returning to the kitchen.</p><p>He is just finishing the <em>Birthday</em>, comma, when Stiles pipes up again from the front. “Derek?”</p><p>This time, Stiles shoves one of the graph papers in Derek’s face. “Your handwriting is more like cursive than mine,” he says. “Can you read this for me?”</p><p>One of his long fingers taps a handwritten comment on the margin of the graph. Derek scowls. “That doesn’t mean I can decipher other people’s messes.”</p><p>“Hey, Professor Yukimura is a genius.”</p><p>“Geniuses can have bad handwriting.”</p><p>Stiles taps again. “Can you read it?”</p><p>Derek squints and leans closer. Stiles’s fingertips smell like graphite. “It says, ‘Compare to 1902, 1951, 1974, 1996, 1997, 2004, and 2016 NW2 quads,’” Derek reads.</p><p>Stiles repeats the dates under his breath and writes them on a legal pad covered in scratchy, seemingly disorganized notes. “Thank you,” he coos, drawing out the <em>you</em>, and Derek feels his cheeks heat.</p><p>“Who is Professor Yukimura?” Derek asks.</p><p>“My friend’s dad. He’s in the history department at UC Berkeley.”</p><p>“Did you go to Berkeley?”</p><p>“Yes.” Stiles looks up and smiles impishly at Derek. There is a pencil smudge on his nose. “Go away, you’re distracting me,” he says teasingly.</p><p>“You’re distracting me,” Derek shoots back but retreats anyway. This cake is not going to decorate itself.</p><p>Derek has just completed the last letter of <em>Bastard</em> when Stiles says, “Derek.” Not a question, but a statement, tense in a way that suddenly makes Derek alert.</p><p>When he exits the kitchen, he immediately smells the difference in Stiles’s scent, something like anxiousness causing him to sweat. “What’s wrong?” he asks.</p><p>Stiles’s eyes dart between ten or so different sheets of the graph paper covered in markings that Derek cannot decipher and notes that he now recognizes as Yukimura’s handwriting. “How long have the Mahealanis been here?” Stiles asks, rapidly tapping his pencil against his legal pad.</p><p>Derek frowns. He cannot recall Stiles ever being this agitated and jittery, and that is including the time he accidentally doubled the dosage of coffee grounds and drank half the pot before realizing his mistake. “Melia’s been here since the mid-1900s,” he answers.</p><p>Stiles slides two of the graphs away from the group. Derek wants to ask what Stiles is even looking at, wants to ask why Stiles suddenly seems upset – even angry – but he feels like Stiles does not want to be interrupted mid-thought.</p><p>“When will you be done closing the bakery?” Stiles abruptly asks.</p><p>“Around six.”</p><p>“Want to join me on an adventure?”</p><p>Stiles is smiling, but there is not an ounce of happiness behind it. “Sure,” Derek says anyway, because if something has Stiles this worked up, Derek wants to be there.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Stiles has his Jeep idling outside of the bakery when Derek locks the front door from the outside. Derek jogs down the steps and ducks to look into the car through the open passenger’s window. “Do I need to bring anything?” he asks.</p><p>Stiles has been a ball of tension and dark muttering for three hours straight, and it is driving Derek a little crazy. “Just your muscles and wolf-y super senses,” Stiles jokes mirthlessly, so Derek nods and gets into the car.</p><p>“So,” Stiles says as he pulls away from the curb, and Derek knows he is about to launch into a long-winded explanation.</p><p>“Ken Yukimura is a professor of history, and he’s human, but his wife and daughter are supernatural, so he knows how to read between the lines of historical records when needed. Because supernatural beings also want to document their history, right? It’s not just a human endeavor. And Beacon Hills is no exception. Which is lucky for me! Because <em>no one</em> in this town wants to share <em>any</em> useful information with me, I have to turn to public records. Library archives in small towns can be pretty sketchy, I’ve learned, but Beacon Hills has a beautifully preserved and catalogued archive. Meredith is a wonderful librarian, too. Do you know Meredith?”</p><p>“She comes in and gets a mixed berry muffin every Sunday morning,” Derek supplies.</p><p>Stiles tilts his head. “Huh. Do you memorize everyone’s orders?”</p><p>“Only some of the regulars.”</p><p>“Cute,” Stiles mutters, and Derek refuses to feel anything about that. Besides, working in a place like a bakery, memorizing an order is usually an accident of happenstance.</p><p>“Anyway,” Stiles says, “Some nut in the mid-1800s – and I say nut as a compliment, because this is exactly the type of shit high-school Stiles would have done with excess Adderall and free time – decided they would set up magically and naturally powered ley line energy measurement devices all over Beacon Hills and into the woods around it.”</p><p>“Magically and naturally powered?” Derek asks.</p><p>Stiles shrugs as he takes a turn. They are headed to the northwest corner of town, the buildings around them morphing into more spread-out residential neighborhoods. “Something about sunlight and decomposing matter being naturally converted to power the devices, or something,” Stiles explains vaguely. “I don’t know, I’m not a magic user, it wasn’t worth my time to deeply understood how they worked.</p><p>“So these things have been taking energy measurements, four times a year, for almost a hundred and fifty years, and feeding those measurements into a journal. More complex magic that I don’t understand, but I’m impressed by, because that journal is taking down measurements <em>to this day</em>.”</p><p>Derek frowns. It feels like an age since he was sitting down with his siblings to take lessons from his older relatives about magic and the supernatural, but he thinks he remembers something about ley lines. “Aren’t ley lines static?” he asks Stiles.</p><p>“The path of the line, or the way it sits in the land, yes. But the energy through them and therefore between them fluctuates, and those fluctuations can be mapped. Which is what Professor Yukimura’s daughter – my friend, Kira – did for me with the numbers from the Beacon Hills archive, because she’s a graduate in applied math and computer science, while I’m not. Her dad helped with interpreting the data she mapped.</p><p>“Most of the fluctuations aren’t that interesting, just slight changes that respond to the net change in energy of that area over the course of the three month period between measurements. There’ll be surges from spring into summer, because of mating and pollenating seasons, and dips in the winter, when a lot of things die or go dormant. But some of the larger changes can correspond to things like loss of life due to forest fires, or a burst of energy generated by a sudden addition of growth – people moving into the town, or planting a sizable garden, like the one in the town square.”</p><p>Derek nods. It is kind of incredible to watch Stiles on a roll. Confidence flows off of him in waves, but he does not seem arrogant, just secure in the knowledge that he is right and that he can make himself be understood. “Those graphs you were looking at?” Derek prompts.</p><p>“Those had significant changes in similar geographic locations.”</p><p>“That’s what we’re looking into?”</p><p>Stiles’s jaw tightens. He pulls the Jeep onto the side of the road and parks, cutting the engine. “How are you with maps?” he asks.</p><p>“Pretty bad.”</p><p>“Thought so. Guess you get the flashlight, then.”</p><p>Derek frowns. <em>Thought so?</em> Stiles might be right, but that does not mean Derek cannot be a little offended.</p><p>Stiles leads them straight into the preserve, holding several of the Yukimuras’ graphs along with a map covered in contour lines and Stiles’s own scribblings. They delve deeper into the forest as the light falls; eventually Stiles asks Derek to turn on the flashlight, which Derek shines in a direction that benefits Stiles and his map more than Derek.</p><p>“You seem worried,” Derek eventually says, when the crunching of undergrowth has been the only sound for the last fives minutes.</p><p>Stiles stumbles over a root and curses. “I’m worried,” he says, “that it’s not just a group of things that can affect large fluctuations.”</p><p>Derek looks around. He has been following Stiles so blindly he is not entirely sure where in the preserve they are, which is an unfamiliar sensation to Derek; the only thing recognizable in this dark is the pull of the Nemeton. “You think a single thing can cause it?”</p><p>Stiles comes to a halt. He looks up, expression grim. “I think an individual can cause it,” he says.</p><p>Derek follows Stiles’s gaze with the beam of the flashlight. In front of them, rustling softly against the starry night sky and smelling like pure rot, the Nemeton looms like a sickly sweet promise.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Lydia came up with the idea late last night, and it was the first thought she had when she woke in the morning. After getting dressed and snatching the keys to the Camaro, Lydia went down to the bakery, obtained Jordan’s number from Derek, grabbed the morning deliveries for the bakery, and bolted out the door with a muffin in hand.</p><p>She knew Jordan usually worked a Wednesday morning shift, so she saved BHPD for her last drop-off. Sure enough, by the time she pulled into the parking lot, that familiar weight was sitting at the back of her skull. Lydia parked and, instead of going inside as usual, pulled out her phone.</p><p><em>It’s Lydia</em>, she texted the unsaved number in her phone. <em>Find me</em>.</p><p>A minute later, Jordan strolled out of the station, already looking directly at her parking spot at the far end of the lot. He waved when he saw her looking and broke into a jog. A thrill rolled through Lydia’s body, her mind already sparking with locations and times and <em>variables</em>. So many testable variables.</p><p>“Good morning,” Jordan said when he reached the Camaro.</p><p>“Jordan.”</p><p>He smiled, easy and open. “Lydia,” he replied, and was she imagining it, or did her name sound different now, coming from his lips?</p><p>“Doughnuts are in the trunk,” Lydia replied.</p><p>Jordan grabbed them and returned to her. “You have my number,” he said, sounding pleased.</p><p>Lydia raised an eyebrow. “When are you off?”</p><p>“Half past eleven.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>He waited a moment, and when she said nothing more, he smiled and said, “Have a nice day, Lydia.”</p><p>Lydia watched him walk away until the station doors swallowed him once more.</p><p>At 11:30, Lydia was sitting at the small American diner on Pine Street. She ordered a coffee, pulled out her phone, and texted Jordan. <em>Find me</em>.</p><p>Seventeen minutes later, Jordan walked into the diner, no longer dressed in uniform. He immediately locked eyes with Lydia, who took a sip of her coffee as he strolled down the aisle to her.</p><p>“Have you had lunch?” Lydia asked.</p><p>Jordan shook his head. “Might I join you?”</p><p>Lydia gestured at the seat opposite her, and he sat down. “You’re not joining me,” she said, finishing the last of her drink, “but you will eat.” She slid a menu over to him and stood up. “Don’t leave, and don’t think about where I am until I let you,” she ordered and then left the diner, handing the waiter a five on her way out.</p><p>And so she spent the day that way: going to one place, telling Jordan to find her, being found, and then going to another. After a couple hours, she had Jordan send her updates every 10 minutes of landmarks he was passing, then every 5 minutes. Throughout the day, Lydia made notes on a map of Beacon Hills and in a small notebook she usually used for grocery lists or bakery finances.</p><p>Now, with the sun setting, Lydia is sitting on a bench in the town square garden, feeling the weight at the base of her skull steadily growing heavier. She glances at her watch. Jordan will appear in one minute, she estimates.</p><p>Sure enough, a minute later, he rounds the corner from Delaney Street onto North Main Street, a paper bag swinging in one hand. “I bought us dinner,” he says when he is in hearing distance, lifting up the bag, and Lydia lets herself smile. She spent a day making him chase her around town, and he still thought to buy her dinner. Why did she spend so many years hating this man who is nearly considerate to a fault?</p><p>Lydia pats the bench, and Jordan sits right next to her, his knee just brushing against hers. “How was your day?” Lydia asks lightly, taking the wrapped sandwich Jordan hands her.</p><p>Jordan looks up from where he is reaching into the bag at his feet, green eyes glinting. “You know exactly how my day was,” he responds, and Lydia shoves him lightly.</p><p>They are halfway through their meal when Jordan asks, “So what did you find out?”</p><p>Lydia blinks, feigning innocent confusion. “Find out?”</p><p>Jordan chuckles. “As if this whole day wasn’t some sort of experiment.”</p><p>Lydia takes a sip from her ice tea, also courtesy of Jordan. “I found,” Lydia starts, “that your radius is 13 miles.”</p><p>His brow furrows. “When you left me at the gym, and I couldn’t sense you when you texted again.”</p><p>Lydia nods. “I was on the town line and walked in the direction of the gym until you texted me.”</p><p>“13 miles,” Jordan repeats.</p><p>“13 mile radius,” Lydia confirms. “Change in elevation, cardinal direction, and density of infrastructure do not significantly affect your abilities, nor do anti-tracking charms.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>Lydia shows him the rune-engraved bracelet that she had put on about an hourand a half ago. For a second, she swears he is about to reach out and touch her arm, and she finds that she is disappointed when he does not.</p><p>“Are there other variables you’re thinking about?” Jordan asks.</p><p>“Of course. I want to test weather, fatigue, whether I’m conscious or not – obviously, if you’re unconscious, you can’t come after me. If there are spells or charms on you.”</p><p>Jordan sits back, regarding her with a soft smile. “You think of everything, don’t you?”</p><p>Lydia sets her sandwich aside. The street lights are beginning to flicker on, casting glowing white pools around the town square. They suddenly throw Jordan’s features into sharp relief, from the cut of his jaw to the slant of his cheekbones.</p><p>Lydia had promised herself, last night, that she would also do this next part, even if it feels like she is giving away a part of herself that no one has known before. Even if a small part of her is worried that Jordan will be angry or will walk away from her forever.</p><p>“I also found,” she tells Jordan, “that my radius is closer to a mile and a half than a mile.”</p><p>Silence hangs in the air. Lydia risks looking at Jordan; he is frowning at the sidewalk in front of him. “Your radius?” he eventually prompts.</p><p>He does not sound mad, Lydia reassures herself. “I’ve felt you before you began to feel me,” she confesses. She wishes she could speak louder than a whisper; it betrays her uncertainty, and she hates when people can tell she is uncertain. “I’ve been able to feel you since you moved here.”</p><p>Jordan turns so he is square to her. Lydia cannot read his expression, but he still does not look mad or frightened, which she supposes counts for something. “Can you find me the way I can find you?”</p><p>Lydia shakes her head. “You said you have a sense of direction, right? In your chest. For me, it’s proximity. It’s a weight at the back of my head. The closer you are, the heavier it is. The more I feel it.”</p><p>“Can you feel it now?”</p><p>Lydia nods.</p><p>“Does it hurt?”</p><p>It is less the question and more the worried tilt of his eyebrows that startles a laugh out of Lydia. “No.”</p><p>Jordan smiles, and Lydia feels the last of her tension seep away. “How am I supposed to know?” Jordan says. “You would rub the back of your head. I thought my mere presence was giving you a headache.”</p><p>Lydia, shaking her head, grabs her drink and takes a measured sip to try to control the weirdly giddy relief coursing through her. Jordan is not running away. She revealed a secret, and it is fine. Everything is fine.</p><p>“Can I – can you show me?”</p><p>Jordan’s hand hovers in the air near her shoulder, waiting for permission. Lydia hesitates. She feels like she should give his request serious consideration, because she and Jordan are charging headlong into an unknown, under-researched supernatural connection, and what if the universe is out to get her, and him touching the place where he lives inside her head makes her explode, or something else terrible?</p><p>But Jordan is looking at her with that open expression, those light eyes that have only ever been honest with her, and suddenly Lydia does not care about caution. She wants to try this. So she takes his hand, guides it to the base of her skull, and presses it there.</p><p>She feels nothing, but she watches as Jordan’s eyes widen and he shivers. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“Did you feel that?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “What did it feel like?”</p><p>“Like … like someone wrapped their arms around my ribs and squeezed.”</p><p>Lydia frowns. “Was it constricting?”</p><p>To her surprise, he blushes. Lydia thinks it is the first time she has ever seen him bashful. “No, it didn’t hurt. Felt more like a hug.”</p><p>His hand slips to the nape of her neck, and Lydia is suddenly too aware of how close their bodies are. She cannot recall the last time she was consciously this close to someone not in her pack. Jordan’s eyes drop, for a split second, to her lips, and her heart skips a beat.</p><p>Something vibrates against her hip, and Lydia jolts. Jordan quickly withdraws his hand, and Lydia grabs her phone and glares at the caller ID. <em>Her alpha</em>. This better be fucking important, Lydia thinks as she answers. “Everything okay?” she asks.</p><p>“Can you meet me and Stiles at Melia’s?” Derek asks instead.</p><p>“That’s not an answer, Derek.”</p><p>Derek huffs. “I don’t know, because Stiles won’t tell me.”</p><p>In the background, there is the unmistakable sound of the Jeep’s engine revving and Stiles’s squawk. Looks like Lydia was not the only one traipsing around town today. “Fine,” Lydia says shortly and hangs up.</p><p>Jordan is looking at her expectantly. “Everything okay?”</p><p>“When it comes to Stiles, who knows?” Lydia replies. She tosses the rest of her sandwich into the bag between Jordan’s feet and stands up. “Come with me to the apothecary,” she says.</p><p>Jordan grins. “You’re not going to make me wait and follow?”</p><p>Lydia rolls her eyes with a smile, holding her hand out to Jordan. He takes it, stands, and does not let go.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>They reach the apothecary at the same time that Stiles’s Jeep pulls up to the curb outside of the store. Stiles is out first, slamming the door shut behind him seemingly the instant the engine cuts, and he storms into the building without so much as a hello to Lydia and Jordan. Derek gets out more slowly, heavy brows furrowed as he looks after Stiles.</p><p>“What were you doing?” Lydia asks.</p><p>“Double-checking something,” Derek replies, unhelpfully. “He’s angry.”</p><p>“We should go in,” Jordan suggests.</p><p>They find Stiles at the counter in front of the register, furiously ringing the bell with one hand and spreading loose sheets of graph paper with the other. “I’m coming!” Melia shrieks from the back, and Lydia rushes forward to snatch the bell from beneath Stiles’s incessant pushing.</p><p>“Do you want her to set everything on fire?” Lydia hisses.</p><p>Stiles cuts a glance at her, and Lydia instinctively takes a step back. When she first was getting to know Stiles, she thought he looked cold and calculating; his expression then does not compare now to the rigid set of his jaw and the ice behind his usually warm brown eyes.</p><p>Melia emerges, grabbing their attention. Gold sparks dangerously in her eyes. “You humans don’t know the meaning of patience,” she snarls at Stiles. “<em>What</em> do you want?”</p><p>Stiles jabs at one of the papers laid out before him. “An explanation,” he says, voice tense and low the way it had been when he had first seen Lydia’s blistered hands in Melia’s office a few short days ago.</p><p>Melia looks at the papers, and Lydia sees the instant her entire body sags. <em>Exhaustion</em>.</p><p>Stiles sees it too, and he barks a derisive laugh. “I fucking knew it!” he shouts, though it sounds far from triumph. “Nothing can be done for the Nemeton, my <em>ass</em>.”</p><p>“Stiles –” Melia says.</p><p>“The Nemeton?” Jordan asks, stepping forward with his hands in a placating gesture to match his voice. “Stiles, what’s going on here?”</p><p>“You see these graphs and maps?” Stiles asks, shuffling the papers in question. “Ley lines and their energy fluctuations. Years of data. <em>Melia</em> –” He shoots a glare at the woman in question “– comes to Beacon Hills. The Nemeton is old, powerful, lovely, and <em>steadily</em> growing, until –“</p><p>Stiles whips out two sheets from the stack and lays them side by side. “From 1996 to 1997. A massive energy shift, only at the Nemeton. Only the Nemeton! Not a single other spot in town. What has the power to drastically change the energy and power of a single tree?”</p><p>Lydia’s stomach drops. “Soulbonding,” she whispers.</p><p>Four sets of eyes land on Melia. Her eyes still spark with gold, but her chin trembles. Lydia does not know whether to feel betrayed by or to feel so, so sad for this once powerful woman, this woman whom Lydia has never seen look so <em>defeated</em>.</p><p>“You won’t deal with the Nemeton,” Stiles says, “because to destroy it would mean your death.”</p><p>Jordan touches one of the papers, brows creased, and looks up to Melia. “Is it true?” he asks.</p><p>Tears well in Melia’s eyes. “It’s not me,” she croaks. “I bonded that tree to Danny.”</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Shocked silence fills the room, to the point that Stiles’s own heartbeat feels muffled. All the energy and rage that had been beating around inside him washes away, replaced by a second of confusion that is quickly followed by recognition. <em>That</em> is why his gut has been nagging him since the preserve, even as his brain insisted on data and righteous fury.</p><p>“Danny?” Derek echoes.</p><p>Melia nods heavily, and Stiles sinks beneath a deep, gut sadness. He <em>knows</em> she is not lying.</p><p>“Danny is a witch with a horticulture specialization,” Parrish says, confused.</p><p>Lydia inhales sharply. “He’s not,” she says, and that is when Stiles remembers a passing comment from Lydia about her kidnapping, something he should have remembered before storming into this building.</p><p>“He’s a magus,” Stiles says, voice hoarse.</p><p>Melia closes her eyes and bows her head, muttering a quick prayer – to whom or what, Stiles does not know. When she reopens her eyes, the gold sparks have disappeared; all that remains are her wet, dark brown irises. “It’s time that I tell all that I know,” she says somberly.</p><p>They end up arranging a circle of chairs in the small space in front of the register. Melia looks at Stiles’s graphs and map, asking, “Do you need to keep these?”</p><p>“No,” Stiles says, and with a blink, they all catch fire. Parrish jumps, but Stiles sees some of the tension seep from Melia’s frame. He remembers that witches, like wolves and other supernatural beings, tend to unleash a bit of energy in moments of distress in order to maintain overall control.</p><p>When they are settled, Melia clears her throat, wipes her eyes, and begins, “My only daughter died giving birth to my grandson.”</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. Stiles will hate himself <em>forever</em> for the brazen accusations he threw at this woman.</p><p>“My daughter was a powerful witch, Danny’s father was also a strong magic user, and both of them were so pure of heart that it wasn’t a surprise that Danny was born a magus. Magi are much more powerful than your average witch, but only able to access their power in the act of giving or gifting. We had known about the Nemeton already, but my daughter was not interested in soulbonding. When she passed, I was worried that Danny’s power would fade without her love, and without his father, who had died earlier that year at the hands of hunters. So I bonded Danny to the Nemeton, knowing that the power of that tree would strengthen Danny, just as Danny would strengthen the power of the Nemeton.”</p><p>Melia sighs. “I was careless. I didn’t keep it a secret that Danny and the Nemeton were bonded. And when one of my old nemeses came to Beacon Hills for me … I defeated her, of course. But in my hurry to get back to my grandson, I didn’t wait to check that she truly had died. She revived long enough to crawl to the Nemeton and poison it with the last of her life force.</p><p>“I felt it right away – the darkness that seeped into Beacon Hills where warm energy once flowed, and in the way Danny cried and cried for <em>days</em>. He was only two years old. The tree tried to heal itself, but when its own energy began to wane, it started to pull from Danny. And it would keep pulling, until both of them had no more life to give, because a poison of this kind can only be purged by another sacrifice, a sacrifice willing and benevolent. I couldn’t destroy the bond, either, as you know; it would only mean the sooner death of both.</p><p>“So I muted and bound Danny’s powers, to reduce his connection to the Nemeton to a thread. It slows the poison, since the energy flowing between Danny and the Nemeton is much slower.”</p><p>Melia takes a shaky breath, and Stiles’s heart clenches. Loss, pain, vengeance, watching the slow and inevitable death of your only loved ones – is there anything good left in this world?</p><p>“They live together, but they die together,” Parrish says. Melia nods.</p><p>“And you,” Lydia says. “Maintaining this bind on Danny and the Nemeton – that’s why you’ve become so weak.”</p><p>Melia’s eyes spark briefly. “Yes,” she affirms. Some steel has returned to her voice. “I want Danny to live as long and full a life as possible. I will hold this mute and bind until it kills me.”</p><p>Her promise reverberates through the room, and Stiles feels hollow. “I’m so sorry, Melia,” he says. He forces himself to meet her eyes, as ashamed and sorrowful as he is, and finds that Melia is smiling wryly at him.</p><p>“You’re an asshole, Mieczysław Stilinski,” she says, “but it was time for me to tell all that I know.”</p><p>Stiles’s jaw drops. He is not terribly surprised that Melia knows his real name, but: “You pronounced it right.”</p><p>Sparks dance in her eyes again, and Stiles understands that he is being threatened. In this moment, he absolutely deserves it.</p><p>Melia turns back to the group. “I ask that you don’t tell Danny,” she says. “It’s my responsibility; I swear I will do it.”</p><p>Stiles exchanges looks with Parrish, Lydia, and Derek. Lydia looks distinctly unpleased, but they all nod, and Stiles follows suit. Melia relaxes by another fraction. “In the meantime,” she says, “I will continue to search, as I have for the last two decades, for any solution to this.”</p><p>“I’ll help,” Stiles volunteers.</p><p>Melia narrows her eyes at him. “Will you?”</p><p>Stiles leans forward, locking Melia’s gaze. “I came to Beacon Hills to save it,” he says. “Saving Beacon Hills now means saving Danny.”</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Leaving the apothecary definitely ranks in the top ten most awkward goodbyes Stiles has had to endure so far in his twenty-four years – which is still kind of saying something, seeing as Stiles seems to have a knack for generating situations that lead to awkward departures. He, Derek, Lydia, and Parrish all climb into the Jeep to play car tag; he drops off Lydia and Parrish at the Camaro, which Stiles has learned is technically Derek’s car, and Lydia will take Parrish to his car before returning to the apartment above the bakery.</p><p>Stiles does not realize how exhausted he is until he stumbles twice while going up the stairs to the apartment. The only reason he does not bust his nose or a shin is Derek, who shoots out to grab his hips with steadying hands whenever Stiles so much as wobbles. “Thanks,” Stiles says begrudgingly when they safely reach the landing. It is the adrenaline, caffeine, and sugar crash all at once that is making him feel woozy, Stiles is sure. He is also sure of this wall, which is so nice to rest against. Maybe he will just slide down and fall asleep right on the floor …</p><p>“Stiles?”</p><p>Stiles blinks at the loud voice directed at him. “I’m okay,” he says.</p><p>“You’re crashing,” Derek says, leaning in close to peer at Stiles’s face.</p><p>Stiles waves a hand and accidentally clips his own ear. “I’ll be find. Couch is right there.”</p><p>Derek’s frown deepens. “You should sleep on an actual mattress.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Stiles.”</p><p>“<em>No</em>. ‘M fine.”</p><p>To prove his point, Stiles heaves himself off the wall, stumbles across the living room, and crashes face-first onto the cushions.</p><p>He drifts to sleep slowly; some part of him is still conscious when Lydia returns, and he hears the sounds of her and Derek’s nightly routines. He is about to go under when he smells fresh mint and feels himself being lifted from the couch and thrown over a well-muscled shoulder. “Ow,” he says, even though it does not actually hurt.</p><p>“Sorry,” he hears Derek murmur.</p><p>Derek pauses; a door opens; then Stiles is laid on a surface so cushy and comforting he moans a little bit. “Holy shit,” he mumbles into what he thinks is a pillow.</p><p>Something tugs at his feet, which wakes Stiles up a bit. He blinks, trying to dispel the bleariness that is more in his head than his eyes. He is in Derek’s room. He looks down his body; Derek is removing Stiles’s shoes, wrinkling his nose when Stiles’s socked foot is finally free to stench up the air.</p><p>“Didn’t listen to me,” Stiles slurs at Derek.</p><p>“You don’t know how to take care of yourself.”</p><p>“Lies.”</p><p>The second shoe is off, and when Derek leaves, Stiles thinks that is that. Guess he has no option but to roll off the bed and sleep on the floor, like the insistently stubborn idiot he is. He rocks his body back and forth, trying to build enough momentum to roll off the bed, and he is just getting into a rhythm when Derek reappears with a glass of water. The alpha frowns from the doorway. “You’re an idiot,” he says.</p><p>“I know,” Stiles agrees.</p><p>Derek huffs a laugh, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, between Stiles and his destination of the floor, and Stiles decides the fight might not be worth it tonight. “Wanna make you laugh more,” he tells Derek.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Like it when you laugh. ’S cute.”</p><p>Derek sets the glass of water on his nightstand. “This is for you,” he tells Stiles.</p><p>“Provider. Good alpha.”</p><p>Derek rolls his eyes. “Go to sleep, Stiles,” he says.</p><p>Stiles is about to protest – he wants to keep teasing Derek, to make him laugh and duck his head to hide his blush – but Derek lays a hand on Stiles’s neck and begins to leech a pain that Stiles had not even known was there. It does him in, and Stiles falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>VIII.</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Derek had forgotten to turn off his four-in-the-morning alarm, but that is not enough to wake up Stiles the next morning. When Derek rushes from the living room to turn off the offensive noise, he finds that Stiles is sleeping on his stomach with an arm thrown around the pillow he is not using for his head, as though in the middle of the night he had reached out to cling on to something. This is not the first time Derek has seen Stiles sleeping – for a while now, he has had to pass the man sacked out on the couch every morning that Derek went down to open the bakery – but Stiles looks far more vulnerable on Derek’s bed than he ever did curled up on the couch.</p><p>Once Derek is in the bakery and setting to work, his mind drifts to the whirlwind of last night. There is a part of him, mostly something rooted deep in his wolf, that is angry with Melia. Derek might have called Beacon Hills his territory for only the last seven years, but he has always been unsettled by the sickness sluggishly pulsing through the land, and now he knows – they all know – that Melia is the reason why this darkness has been allowed to persist and strengthen over the years. His wolf does not want to trust Melia. Yet, at the same time, Derek’s instinctive wrath falters when he recalls the grief that clogged his nose when Melia told her story.</p><p>Derek is twenty-nine. His baggage did not really begin to accumulate until he was sixteen, and there are days when his grief and guilt are enough to incapacitate him. He cannot <em>imagine</em> how much weight a person must carry with nearly two centuries worth of experience bearing down on their soul. And if anything, Derek knows what it is to lose the last of your family: he lost Laura to Peter, and though Peter’s mind was lost to the fire, he truly, fully left with Derek’s teeth ripping out his throat. For the months between Peter’s death and stumbling onto Lydia’s campfire, Derek had been alone, and it is the one thing he wishes to never be again.</p><p>If there is anything Derek has taken away from last night, it is that Melia is just as vulnerable as anyone else.</p><p>Lydia comes down to the bakery right as Derek is boxing up the last of the daily deliveries, a stifled yawn the only sign that she is anything other than unaffected by last night. “Morning,” she tells Derek, grabbing a thermos and beelining to the coffee machine.</p><p>“How’s Stiles?” Derek asks.</p><p>“Still sleeping.” Lydia turns to give Derek a brief but pointed look. “In <em>your</em> bed.”</p><p>Derek begins washing the stack of dishes in his sink. God, what he would give, some days, to have someone around to deal with the little shit like this around his kitchen. “He over-exhausted himself,” Derek tells the suds on his hands. “He needed a real bed.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>Derek <em>knows</em> that Lydia has many more thoughts, but she makes the uncharacteristically merciful decision and drops the subject. “I’m going to bring Danny back with me,” she says instead.</p><p>Derek raises an eyebrow at her, and Lydia huffs. “I promised that I wouldn’t tell him,” she reminds him. “I just – I want to spend time with him.”</p><p>Fair enough, Derek supposes. Danny and Lydia are friends, to an extent. He nods, and Lydia takes that as permission to leave, grabbing the delivery boxes and bustling out the door without another word.</p><p>When he is through with the dishes, Derek pauses a moment to silence the radio. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the noises above the bakery. Usually, if he is not paying attention, the ground floor is loud enough to mask what is happening in the apartment. But if Derek makes the effort …</p><p><em>There</em>. A steady <em>ba-bump … ba-bump … ba-bump</em> …</p><p>Derek turns the radio on again. He thinks he has known it since before last night, before the preserve at sunset, before the knowing sigh that answered Lydia’s phone, even before the impulsive offer to live in their apartment – Derek has known it since he ate the first slice of a walnut raisin bread that he had thought was forever lost to the grave. But it was not until late last night, when Derek pulled the pain from Stiles’s tense shoulders until the other man fell asleep, that Derek finally <em>admitted</em> it to himself: he trusts Stiles. It is time that Derek started acting like it.</p><p>Which is why Derek finds himself walking into the BHPD station later that evening. Boyd is on the front desk, and he straightens with a frown when he senses his alpha come into the building. “Everything all right?” he asks.</p><p>Derek nods. “How are things?”</p><p>“The station is tense. It’s been a while since the last sacrifice, so we’re expecting another one soon.”</p><p>Derek nods, tapping the edge of the desk. He does not know how to begin. “Um –”</p><p>He is cut off by the front door swinging open, and a familiar voice calling, “Alpha Hale! Deputy Boyd!”</p><p>Derek turns and nods in greeting to Melia. Her gait still seems tired, but some of the mirth has returned to her eyes. “What are you doing here this evening?” Melia asks, drawing up next to Derek.</p><p>Derek turns to Boyd. “I’d like to petition, as the alpha of this territory, for Stiles Stilinski to be let in on this case concerning supernatural sacrifices.”</p><p>A hand wraps around his wrist, and Derek looks down at his side to see Melia’s smile. “I’m here for the very same reason,” she says to Boyd, though she holds Derek’s gaze.</p><p>Derek feels his lips twitch into a hesitant grin. For the first time in a while, it feels like he is doing something right.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>When he returns home, the sun has long been set. Derek trudges up the stairs to the apartment, wracking his mind for what he could make for dinner – he would not be surprised if Stiles slept the entire day through – and stops short when he reaches the landing.</p><p>The living room looks like a library has exploded in it. Books and journals propped open with random objects are scattered on every surface, not to mention stacks upon messy stacks of legal pads and loose leaf paper. At the center of the chaos, Stiles sits on the floor, hunched over his laptop that is on the coffee table, his face way too close to the screen. Absently biting on one of his nails, he seems not to have noticed Derek’s entrance.</p><p>“Stiles?” Derek asks.</p><p>His eyes flit up for a second. “Dinner’s in the kitchen,” he mumbles around his thumb, already locked back onto his screen.</p><p>Sure enough, there is a large bowl of chicken and vegetable stir fry sitting next to a pot of rice. Both look untouched. “Is Lydia home?” Derek calls towards the living room.</p><p>“She went to bed. Said she had a headache.”</p><p>Derek frowns. Headaches never seem to be just headaches for Lydia these days.</p><p>Derek fixes two plates, reheats them in the microwave, and returns to the living room. He is able to find a spot on the coffee table to set down Stiles’s plate before he perches on the armrest of the couch, which appears to be the only other safe spot in the room. From this close, Stiles <em>reeks</em> of misery, and his tense shoulders have crawled up to his ears.</p><p>Derek squints at Stiles’s laptop, but the screen is too bright and the text too small and dense for Derek to make out what it is from this distance. “What are you working on?” he asks.</p><p>“Research for Danny,” Stiles answers. He reaches up to his left ear, grabs at air, and then successfully finds his pencil tucked behind his right ear.</p><p>Derek glances around the room again. The pure volume of materials convinces Derek that Stiles, since he woke up at whatever time, has done nothing today but research things that could help Danny and the Nemeton. There is a partially filled glass of water on the rug beneath the coffee table, but aside from that, there is no evidence that Stiles has done anything to take care of his body since parking himself in this spot to work.</p><p>“You should eat,” Derek says.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“<em>Stiles</em>,” Derek grits out. “Eat.”</p><p>“I can’t!” Stiles explodes, flinging out his hands and sending papers and his pencil flying. Derek blinks, caught off guard. “I need to fix this, or do <em>something</em>, so I’m not being useless –”</p><p>Derek sets aside his dinner and begins relocating the shit covering the couch cushions. He keeps an ear trained on Stiles’s ranting even as he does his best to not dislodge the papers haphazardly tucked into the stack of legal pads in his hands.</p><p>“– I fucked up last night, and I <em>knew</em> it, I knew something didn’t feel right going in there, but I was so mad at the thought that she wasn’t thinking of anyone but herself that I didn’t listen to my gut, but I knew, I <em>knew</em> something – but I fucking ignored it, and I did a shitty fucking thing –”</p><p>Derek sits on the cleared couch. “Stiles,” he says.</p><p>Stiles whips around, staring at him with eyes blown wide. “I ignored it,” he repeats, “and I <em>hurt</em> someone who is just trying to <em>keep her only family alive</em>, and if she dies then he dies then <em>it</em> dies then we <em>all</em> die –”</p><p>“Stiles,” Derek says, reaching for Stiles’s shoulder.</p><p>“The world is a shitty fucking place, Derek,” Stiles spits.</p><p>There is enough loathing in his tone to make Derek abort his movement. Stiles is shaking, Derek realizes, <em>trembling</em>, overwhelmed with so many emotions that Derek cannot differentiate the smells from one massive cloud of doom and <em>bad</em>.</p><p>“You’re born into this awful fucking world,” Stiles surges on, “where people are cruel and fate is crueler, and you run around to try to fix something but you just end up fucking more things up, and then everyone dies anyway, because you can’t do enough, and – and –”</p><p>Stiles takes a large, rattling inhale, and Derek risks laying a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. Tears well in Stiles’s eyes, making them seem even larger in their crazed state, and Derek – fuck, what is Derek supposed to do? “It’s okay,” he offers, softly, afraid it is the wrong thing to say.</p><p>Stiles’s chin quivers, and then he sags sideways, smashing his face into the side of Derek’s leg.</p><p>He does not sob, exactly, but Derek can feel the tears soaking into his jeans, and Stiles’s shuddering breaths shake Derek to his core. At first, Derek holds very, very still, but as Stiles seems to collect himself a bit, Derek lets his fingers drag back and forth, from the top of Stiles’s spine to the short hair at the base of his skull. It feels like an hour has passed, though it cannot be more than a few minutes, before Stiles speaks again, forehead still pressed against Derek’s thigh.</p><p>“People are <em>mean</em>,” Stiles whispers. “I – I try to believe that shit can be better. But all I ever see is sadness, and pain, and sorrow, and – and maybe I’m the problem. I’m the shared constant.”</p><p>“You’re not,” Derek automatically says.</p><p>At that, Stiles puts a hand on the floor to help himself straighten up, pulling away from Derek’s leg to look Derek in the eye. “But that doesn’t matter, anyway, does it?” Stiles says. “I woke up at eleven and just laid there until four, because how the fuck is anything supposed to get better?” He shakes his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I’m so tired.”</p><p>The last bit is muttered, and Derek does not know if Stiles is referring to right now or to something larger, but that is less important at the moment. “It does matter,” Derek counters. “The world sucks, but you make it better.”</p><p>“I wrongfully attacked the most powerful witch on the West coast and forced her to reveal her –”</p><p>“You didn’t force her to do anything,” Derek interrupts. “Melia chose to tell us.”</p><p>“But –”</p><p>“Shut <em>up</em>, Stiles.”</p><p>Stiles blinks, taken aback, and Derek jumps to take advantage of the silence. “You saved my sister’s life,” he says, “You delivered her to the people who became her family. You brought Cora back to me. You’ve given me a chance to amend things with Erica and Isaac.”</p><p>“You hated –”</p><p>“You saved Boyd’s life,” Derek presses on. “You gave Melia the opportunity to come clean about a secret she has kept for decades.”</p><p>Stiles looks at the floor, muttering a refutation, but Derek ignores it. He does not know where the words are coming from, but they keep flowing, and he knows they are right; he cannot slow down now. “Lydia hasn’t made a single real friend for the seven years that we’ve been living in Beacon Hills, until <em>you</em> came into her life. And now she’s giving other people chances she would not have even considered a couple months ago. She’s opening up. <em>I’m</em> opening up.”</p><p>Derek watches Stiles carefully. His breathing and heart are nearly back to normal, and when he looks up at Derek again, his eyes are red-rimmed but dry. “Don’t,” Derek says quietly, “ever try to tell me that you’re the problem. That you don’t matter. Because you’re the person who reminded me that things <em>do</em> matter, and that something <em>can</em> be done about it.”</p><p>Stiles sniffs, settling against the couch. His eyes rove around the room, flitting from one stack of research materials to another, but he seems far less agitated than when Derek first walked into the apartment. “Okay,” Stiles eventually says, subdued in such an uncharacteristic way that something in Derek’s chest knocks loose.</p><p>“Eat your dinner,” Derek says.</p><p>For a moment, Derek thinks he might have to repeat himself, but then Stiles reaches for his food and heaves himself up onto the couch. Only then does Derek reclaim his plate, and they eat together in silence.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>It is around midnight that Stiles decides that he has done enough research to let himself go to bed. Derek had not been happy that Stiles went back to working as soon as he finished eating, but he did not voice his discontent, so Stiles plowed on. His research was slower but steadier than it had been the rest of the day, and with less erratic method, Stiles ultimately got more out of these couple hours than he had the several prior. Whatever exchange he had had with Derek – Stiles does not want to call it an argument, but it was something explosive in nature – seems to have grounded Stiles, a grounding he had not even realized he needed.</p><p>About an hour ago, Derek went through his nightly routine and, unprompted, refilled Stiles’s water glass before slipping into his dark room. He had not closed the door, which made Stiles think he was not yet going to bed, but Derek never reemerged. Stiles is secretly glad; a part of him is convinced that the later it got, the more disapproving Derek’s expression would have become as Stiles continued to stare at his laptop.</p><p>He has an eighteen page outline, now, of preliminary research topics that could potentially lead to helping Danny and the Nemeton. It is a decent place to stop, honestly; Stiles does not want to dive too far into any direction without first having Melia go through his outline with a fine-toothed comb, to determine whether some of his thoughts are dead-ends that Melia has already encountered. Having something to present to Melia, Stiles feels, will be enough to let his mind settle and drift to sleep.</p><p>An hour of tossing and turning on the couch later, Stiles admits he is wrong.</p><p>It is not the research keeping him up, but the memory of fingertips on the back of his neck, of intense hazel eyes bearing down on him. The couch feels pointedly uncomfortable in a way it never has before, to the point that Stiles feels like his spine and back are made of nothing but knots. He flips onto his stomach, then his back, and then his stomach again, but it is only another five minutes, according to his phone, before he gives up and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water.</p><p>When Stiles turns from the sink back to the rest of the apartment, his eyes are drawn to Derek’s open door. Both Derek and Lydia usually sleep with their doors closed; maybe Stiles should close Derek’s. As a thank-you gesture.</p><p>When he reaches the doorway, however, he hovers, fascinated by the way the moonlight through the windows casts sharp lines of shadow across the room. It is fairly sparse, as rooms go, as though Derek still has not let himself settle in Beacon Hills. There is a dresser, a rickety nightstand with a lamp, and a coatrack in the corner hung with heavier winter clothing; the walls are empty, and there is no art or framed photos anywhere. The only bit of personality – of personalization – is the quilt that lies on the bottom half of the bed.</p><p>It is the first time, Stiles realizes, that he has seen Derek asleep. Derek sleeps on his side, apparently, with an arm tucked under the pillow he is using. Stiles is wondering how he does not lose blood circulation to his arm, sleeping like that, when Derek’s eyes crack open.</p><p>Stiles freezes, ten equally unconvincing excuses for standing here like a creep tumbling through his brain, but Derek merely closes his eyes again. The hand that is not trapped beneath his pillow, however, clumsily pulls back the sheets on the unoccupied half of the bed, a gesture that is unmistakably an invitation to join.</p><p>Stiles hovers. He is indecisive, he knows it, and he knows <em>Derek</em> must know it, because after a moment Derek grumbles, “Get in.”</p><p>Stiles inhales and takes a step forward.</p><p>The mattress is as comfortable as Stiles remembers it being last night, and it feels all the better for being beneath the blankets this time. He rolls onto his stomach, knowing he will eventually end up in this position anyhow, and he jumps only a little when Derek’s hand lands at the nape of Stiles’s neck. The now familiar sensation of pain being pulled away from his body relaxes Stiles, and he sighs deeply.</p><p>“How do you know I’m hurting there when I don’t even realize it?” he asks.</p><p>Derek snorts. “If you could see the way you hunch over that laptop.”</p><p>“<em>Hey</em>.”</p><p>His protest is not really a protest, and he finally, mercifully slips into unconsciousness. He rouses only once, briefly woken by an alarm clock going off and the mattress shifting as Derek gets out, and he is almost out again when Derek returns a couple minutes later. Stiles feels a hand on his shoulder, a small point of pressure against the top of his head, and then hears footsteps retreat and go down the apartment stairs. <em>I’d like that again</em>, is his last coherent thought before he drifts back to sleep.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>When Stiles finally wakes, he feels like a new person – or, more accurately, he feels enough like himself again that he cannot recognize the person who had a breakdown last night. <em>Compartmentalization, baby</em>, Stiles thinks to himself as he boots up the coffee machine.</p><p>By the time Stiles has had his coffee and the bakery has officially opened, Lydia is still holed up in her room, so Derek sends Stiles to do the delivery rounds with the note to drop by the BHPD last. As Stiles travels around town in his Jeep – the two coffee shops on opposite ends of town, a special order for a teacher meeting at Beacon Hills Elementary School, a diner he has yet to try on Pine Street – he is pleased to realize that he knows, or at least knows of, most of the people and streets that he encounters. Being well-researched has long been something that Stiles relies upon to feel secure, and even if he only plans to stay in a town for a short while, it is always a moment of reassurance and relief when he finally feels like he <em>knows</em> the layout around him.</p><p>When Stiles enters the station, Parrish is on the front desk, chatting with Boyd. Parrish’s brow knots upon seeing Stiles. “Good morning, Stiles,” he says, polite as ever. “Is Ly– is Miss Martin okay?”</p><p>“She has a bit of a headache,” Stiles says, knowing that he is fooling exactly no one. They all know Lydia is a banshee, and they all know her supernatural abilities have reason to be particularly active right now.</p><p>“I have something for you,” Boyd says and lumbers off.</p><p>Stiles raises an eyebrow at Parrish. “Know what it is?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Gonna tell me?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Stiles grins and passes the doughnut box over to Parrish. “How have you been, since…?”</p><p>Parrish shrugs. The gesture is more helpless than ambivalent. “I’m fine. I – I haven’t told anyone. I’m not sure if it is the right or wrong thing to do, but … I trust Melia. I owe her a lot.”</p><p>Stiles nods. He has not told anyone, either, and not just because he has not left the apartment until this morning. “I think –” Stiles begins before Boyd reappears with a storage file box stuffed to the brim with files and print-outs.</p><p>“Melia and Derek came by yesterday to petition that you be given access to all information regarding the ongoing investigation of the sacrifices,” Boyd says.</p><p>He thunks the box onto the corner of the desk in front of Stiles, who blinks. “For real?”</p><p>“You’ve proven yourself to them,” Parrish says, “and to us.”</p><p>Stiles reaches out and runs a fingertip over an edge of the box. “I can take this out of here with me?” he asks Boyd.</p><p>“Just don’t go showing it to civilians,” Boyd says.</p><p>A wry smile curls Stiles’s lips. More research. “Can do,” Stiles says before snatching the box and hightailing it out of the station.</p><p>He ends up dragging together two of the smaller tables at the bakery, because the apartment living room still has not recovered from his researching frenzy of the day before. He has just settled in to dive into the first folder – evidence from the most recent sacrifice, the one that Derek and the others had just missed – when he senses someone approaching his set up.</p><p>It is Derek, who sets down a fresh mug of black coffee next to Stiles’s hand. “Thank you,” Stiles says, looking Derek in the eye, trying to convey that Stiles is thanking him for more than the coffee.</p><p>Derek holds his gaze for a moment, then nods and retreats to the kitchen.</p><p>Leafing through crime scene evidence is second nature by now, so Stiles does not struggle with the jargon or the way in which everything is compiled and presented; what is more challenging for him is that the case is about sacrifices. Since undertaking his line of work freshman year of college, Stiles has only had to deal with sacrifices once, and that was just an undergrad who kept stealing amphibians from the biology department’s research lab. Stiles cannot even remember why the guy was doing it, just that fixing it all required minimal unsubtle threatening of the dude and a lot more subtle manipulation of university officials to keep the supernatural truth of it all under wraps.</p><p>The photos that Stiles is dealing with now are far more gruesome than a dismembered frog ever was in real life, and they have Stiles cracking open prescriptive tomes for witches-in-training, going back to the basics of energy and spell-work, harnessing and casting.</p><p>When Danny walks into the bakery, it is Stiles’s research brain, wanting answers, that reacts first. “Danny!” he calls, whipping his head up so quickly he can feel the knots instantly forming in his neck and shoulders. God, Derek is right – Stiles has shitty posture.</p><p>Danny waves, takes the to-go box that Derek is holding out for him, and drifts over to Stiles. “Stiles,” Danny says amicably. “How are you?”</p><p>“I’m <em>fabulous</em>, now that you’re here,” Stiles replies. He quickly snaps shut any folders currently displaying investigation evidence and gestures for Danny to take the seat opposite him. “What did you get?”</p><p>Danny looks down at the box in his hands. “Muffins for my grandmother. She’ll never admit it to Derek, but they’ve become her comfort food.”</p><p>“You know Derek can hear you from the kitchen, right?”</p><p>Danny grins. “Yeah, I know.”</p><p>Stiles takes a second to study Danny. There are no evident signs in his face or expression of the toll that the Nemeton is gradually taking on him, or at least there are none that Stiles can see with his regular old human senses. “So,” he says, splaying a hand across the witchcraft book he has open in front of him. “You’re a witch.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“I hear horticulture is your speciality?”</p><p>Danny shrugs. “It comes easier than the other stuff.”</p><p>“Can you answer a question I have about witch-y stuff?”</p><p>“Depends on the question.”</p><p>“Great!” Stiles taps his book. “This book has been great at explaining the beginner stuff to me,” he explains, “but it was also published in, like, 1840. So there’s a bunch of modern stuff it doesn’t really cover.”</p><p>Danny is giving him some sort of look, as if he is equal parts confused and amused by something, but Stiles ignores it. If his observations are not totally off base, this is just how Danny is with people on the regular. “Okay.”</p><p>“Say – hypothetically – I wanted to sacrifice a living thing – which I don’t, but in this scenario I do – what would be the hypothetical difference between using, like, handcuffs versus a rope to bind down the thing I wanted to sacrifice?”</p><p>Danny stares at him.</p><p>Stiles blinks innocently.</p><p>“Stiles,” Danny says softly, as if he needs to let Stiles down gently, “you suck at being subtle.”</p><p>Stiles guffaws, and Danny’s eyes fucking <em>twinkle</em> in response. If Stiles had met Danny at another time, when Stiles was not so buried by the need to solve problems and so irritatingly distracted by a werewolf who bullies Stiles into taking care of himself, then Stiles would so give Danny a try. At least for a one night stand. Stiles knows he would get shot down, but he also knows he would have fun with the flirting along the way.</p><p>“You got me,” Stiles concedes. “Anyway, I figured you knew.”</p><p>“I live in the same house as the epicenter of this town’s gossip mill,” Danny says nonchalantly. “And I do talk about it sometimes with my grandmother.”</p><p>“So … can you answer my hypothetical?”</p><p>“Hypothetical,” Danny mutters, shaking his head. He shifts his weight to sit more square with Stiles. “If you’re choosing what material to use in binding something, you have three main considerations: how easily you want to physically bind, how much energy you want to harness, and how proficient you are at the task you’re trying to accomplish. The first criteria is not really related to the magic at all – a human binding another human would rank things similarly.”</p><p>“Like a handcuffs versus duct tape versus rope situation?” Stiles asks.</p><p>Danny nods. “Or zip-ties, or wire. Some things are better at physically binding. But they might not conduct energies as well. Generally, the more processed a material is, the less adept it is as a conductor.”</p><p>Stiles nods. “And so the third consideration determines how you balance the first two? Like, natural twine is highly conductive, but I might suck at tying knots?”</p><p>Danny smirks. “I could teach you a thing or two about knot tying.” He winks.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, Stiles thinks, Danny is good. Whenever Stiles tries to wink, it either comes off as a facial tic or disgustingly creepy.</p><p>“Mind out of the gutter, Danny,” Stiles says instead.</p><p>Danny shrugs, as if to say, <em>Had to try</em>. “For this case,” he says, nodding at Stiles’s file box, “We think the witch was trained in the traditional manner. She uses natural rope, so she gets the most out of every spell, but she also uses complicated knots in what we assume is a relatively short amount of time, given how quickly she is able to perform the sacrifice and then wipe and get away from a scene. So she’s well practiced.”</p><p>Stiles nods. “Thoughts on why she wipes the scene but leaves the bodies?”</p><p>“Laziness? Lack of care?” Danny shrugs again. “Honestly, I don’t like trying to understand the motives of people doing evil things.”</p><p>“If only I could say the same,” Stiles jokes.</p><p>Danny laughs. “I should be getting these back home,” he says, tapping his to-go box as he stands. “Good luck, Stiles.”</p><p>“Thanks, Danny. You too.”</p><p>Around one in the afternoon, Stiles has another visitor: Lydia, bearing two plates with sandwiches and spliced apples. “Derek says you need to eat,” she says and sits down across from Stiles.</p><p>Stiles picks up a piece of apple. “Is this the first of the season?”</p><p>“Apparently. I can’t believe it’s that time already.”</p><p>Stiles takes a bite and savors the crisp texture. “Neither can I,” he mumbles. When did he first arrive to Beacon Hills? Was it sometime in June? And now summer is already approaching its end.</p><p>Lydia finishes eating before Stiles, mostly because she is actually eating and Stiles is rambling about anything not related to the research of the last couple days. It is less about keeping Lydia in the dark – of course she knows what is going on, given that she has visions of near every sacrifice before anyone else knows it will happen – but with everything Lydia has been through recently, Stiles does not want to push her further than she is comfortable with.</p><p>She makes the decision herself, rapping his box with a manicured nail when Stiles pauses to take a bite of his sandwich. “Case files?” she asks. Stiles nods, and Lydia smirks at some thought that Stiles knows better than to try to tease out of her.</p><p>“I’ve been trying to figure out reasons why she’d leave the bodies,” Stiles says, “especially after everything else has been wiped clean. Laziness doesn’t feel like the right answer, and neither does stupidity. I mean –” Stiles gestures at the witchcraft books scatted across his two tables. “– I’ve read a handful of witchcraft-for-beginners books in the last couple hours, and even I already know there’s so much more energy that could be drawn from burning the body after sacrifice.”</p><p>Lydia’s eyebrows pinch. “Maybe she wants to be found.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>Lydia looks at Stiles. “When she kidnapped me, the way she was talking – it seemed like she wants out from whatever deal she made with the person ordering her to carry out these sacrifices. Unless there are bodies left to be found –”</p><p>“No one would know the sacrifices were happening.”</p><p>Lydia nods. “Which creates another problem.”</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>Lydia levels him with an unimpressed look. “There are more than two people involved, which means the witch has witnesses to the bodies being left behind,” she explains. “So they must either not know or not care that the witch is not burning the bodies in a full sacrifice, or they don’t care that the bodies will be found.”</p><p>“Careful enough to cover their tracks and scents, but indifferent enough to their activities being known.”</p><p>“It’s <em>advantageous</em> for their activities being known,” Lydia counters. “Clearly, they know Beacon Hills is a supernatural haven. They’re implicitly threatening the entire town.”</p><p>Stiles blinks. What an unexpected, accurate, cheery thought. “How long has this been on your mind?”</p><p>Lydia purses her lips. Instead of answering, she flicks open a file. “Want help going through these?”</p><p>They settle into a rhythm of reading and swapping materials, and an hour later, they reach the last few folders in the box. Lydia cracks open one of them and grimaces. “More poor penmanship?” Stiles jokes. Lydia hates everyone’s handwriting but her own, apparently.</p><p>Lydia shakes her head. “This was the first nightmare I had related to this,” she says, handing the file to Stiles. “He was human.”</p><p>Stiles scans over the cover page. Max Coppersfield, fourteen years old, found in the east sector of the woods, cause of death blood loss, suspected murder weapon an ax or chainsaw. Stiles flips the page, and he can <em>feel</em> the blood drain from his face. “Lydia?” he asks cautiously.</p><p>She looks up. “Yes?”</p><p>“It wasn’t an ax that cut Max in half, was it?” Stiles asks.</p><p>Lydia’s expression darkens. “No. It was –”</p><p>“– a sword,” they say in unison.</p><p>Lydia’s eyes flare. “You know something,” she says.</p><p>Stiles scrabbles for his phone. “Fuck fuck shit <em>fuck</em>,” he hisses as he dials one of the five phone numbers he has had memorized since he was twelve.</p><p>The line picks up on the second ring. “Stiles!” a happy voice booms across the line. “Dude, we were just talking about how we should call you soon.”</p><p>“Hi, Scott, I love you. Where’s Allison?”</p><p>“Working in the garden,” Scott replies, which explains why Scott picked up Allison’s phone. “Do you want me to –”</p><p>“Yes, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>“Is this a life or death thing? Like, do you need me to sprint?”</p><p>“Maybe a power walk?”</p><p>“Sure thing.” In the background, there is the sound of a door opening and then Scott trotting down a set of stairs. “Are you still in Beacon Hills?”</p><p>“Yeah, I am.”</p><p>“Wow. When’s the last time you’ve been able to stay in one place for this long?”</p><p>Stiles opens his mouth and realizes he does not have an answer. “Honestly, I don’t remember.”</p><p>“Hm. Maybe you should take a break,” Scott muses earnestly. “Does the local alpha still want to eviscerate you?”</p><p>“Nah, we’re cool.”</p><p>“Good to hear. Allison?”</p><p>There is a muffled exchange, during which Stiles’s leg starts jittering. Lydia is staring at him like she is ready to strangle an answer out of him, which does nothing to help Stiles’s nerves.</p><p>“I hear we’re in the power-walk territory of death?” Allison says, amused.</p><p>“Ally, hi, I love you, did your grandfather have any devotees when he was alive who might copy cat his more unsavory signature practices?”</p><p>“I’m doing fine, thanks,” Allison snips, and Stiles can imagine the irritated set to her jaw. “I don’t know of any, but I can put my dad on the line, if you want.”</p><p>“Chris is back from France?”</p><p>“He’s <em>been</em> back, which you would know, if you ever bothered to call.”</p><p>“I’m calling right now!”</p><p>“We haven’t heard from you in three weeks!”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Stiles capitulates, because while Stiles and Allison can fight like the best of blood siblings, he always crumbles the instant some hurt leaks into her voice.</p><p>“Just, call back when you sort out whatever thing this is, okay?” Allison asks.</p><p>“I promise.”</p><p>“Okay. Here’s Dad. Love you.”</p><p>“What’s this about my father?” Chris asks before Stiles can say hello.</p><p>Stiles fills Chris in on the details from Max Cooperfield’s file and gives a general gloss of the shit that has been going down in Beacon Hills. Stiles has never wanted for a father figure in his life – his dad is, no contest, the Best Dad to Ever Live – but Chris Argent is the most prominent mentor figure that Stiles has. Just laying everything out for Chris right now is already abating Stiles’s anxiety; Chris has an incredible capacity for listening to and absorbing everything that Stiles shoots out in his signature ramble, then parsing out the important details and laying them back out.</p><p>“It’s unlikely Gerard has a copy cat devotee,” Chris says while Stiles finishes. “Most of his hunters were loyal to the money, not Gerard or his methods. If Gerard had a devotee, it was Kate, and you saw those crime scene photos.”</p><p>“She couldn’t raise herself from the dead if she tried,” Stiles mutters darkly. He glances at the shutter swing doors that block his view into the kitchen. One day, he will have to ask Derek what exactly happened eight years ago, for everyone left from the fire to end up dead but for Derek to survive and disappear to Beacon Hills.</p><p>“Even if he did have a devotee,” Chris goes on, “it’s unlikely they have a sword that could do what Gerard’s did. He coerced a fae community to forge it, and he probably requested to be buried with it.”</p><p>Stiles looks at Lydia. He had only told Chris that the body was cut in half, nothing about Lydia or the sword from her dream vision, because Stiles does not want Chris to arrive at the worst possible explanation that Stiles is already worried is very, very right. “Buried with it, huh?” Stiles asks. “Must have been, uh. Special.”</p><p>“The Argents have a tradition of being buried with an object that has the family crest on it. I doubt Gerard would have chosen anything other than that sword.”</p><p>Stiles grabs a pencil and flips to a fresh page on his legal pad. “Thanks, Chris,” he says, already paying more attention to what he is sketching than the phone call. “I’ll give you a non-urgent call sometime soon.”</p><p>Chris scoffs. “Call Allison and Scott instead. I don’t care.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I know you really do. Bye.”</p><p>“Take care, Stiles.”</p><p>The line goes dead, and Stiles flips the notebook around to face Lydia. “Do you know what this is?” he asks.</p><p>She leans over to inspect it, biting her lip. For a second Stiles is worried that his artistic skills are far enough on this side of shitty to make the crest unrecognizable, but then her eyes widen. “That was on the pommel of the sword,” she says.</p><p>Stiles sighs, running a hand over his face as he slips down in his chair. “Gerard Argent is so not dead,” he says.</p><p>“Argent?” Lydia echoes, incredulous.</p><p>Maybe Scott is right, Stiles thinks. He could use a fucking break.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Lydia learns that Stiles knows how to hack. She gets a live demonstration, right there in the bakery, when Stiles verifies that Gerard Argent died – or did not die – exactly where he claimed to have died. “You’re accessing a database located in New Mexico,” Lydia reiterates, because how did this skill of Stiles’s not come up sooner?</p><p>Stiles snorts. “This is nothing. You should see what my friend, Kira, can do.”</p><p>“I’m not sure I want to,” Lydia murmurs, watching the code appear on the screen at the rate that Stiles’s fingers fly across the keyboard.</p><p>The days that follow become a game of <em>Where Did Gerard Argent Go?</em> The death certificate and records housed in a small town in New Mexico are not falsified, so Stiles turns to the hunter networks and begins probing and interviewing. He spends his days pacing around the apartment while on his phone, only stopping to eat or drink or sleep when Lydia and Derek gang up on him. When she can, Lydia helps with online research – reading obituaries, browsing through official town press releases, combing through the blog network of witches that, once located and taken in the aggregate, provides solid reads on the supernatural community on the day-to-day. They have a breakthrough on the second night, when Stiles hangs up a phone call with a grim expression. “My guy confirmed that Gerard’s casket in the ground is empty.”</p><p>Three days after that, they have found enough to determine that Gerard likely had assistance in pulling off his official death in New Mexico six years ago, that he spent some time in Utah before drifting to the coast, and that he somehow ended up in the Beacon Hills area. There is little doubt that Gerard is the one behind the sacrifices and the one that the witch claimed to be obligated to.</p><p>What they are less certain about is why he faked his death, why he is organizing sacrifices rather than hunting, and where he – and the witch – could be hiding now.</p><p>“It’s not in town lines,” Derek says one night over dinner. “Melia would know if that were the case.”</p><p>“Guess it’s time to go door-to-door on the sketchiest motels in a hundred mile radius,” Stiles mutters darkly, cutting his steak more aggressively than necessary.</p><p>When Lydia cannot help the research, she is lying in a dark room, sipping one or two of Melia’s teas and pressing an ice pack to her forehead.</p><p>It sucks to already know what she is going to see when the headaches finally break. Lydia might be in the dark about the details, of course, but her imagination is all too able and eager to pull up the memories of her past visions as sources to predict what could happen this time. When she manages to sleep, it is only to wake with a gasp, shuddering from mental images of blood and gut and bone, and the terrifying sensation of being pursued.</p><p>It is another splitting headache that has Lydia stuck at home the evening that everyone else begins searching motels in the surrounding area. At least she is not alone; when she was at the laundromat earlier, she ran into an off-duty Jordan and decided to drag him back to the apartment.</p><p>Jordan brightened her dinner, in the intentional but seemingly effortless way he seems to brighten anything for Lydia these days, but once the meal is done and the dishes are washed, dried, and put away, anxiety immediately seeps into the atmosphere. Waiting to hear from the others – that is, Derek, Boyd, Cora, Isaac, Erica, Stiles, Shivam, and Sammy – does not sit well with either of them, apparently, and it has been over an hour since the investigative group split off into pairs and headed to their respective motels outside of town lines.</p><p>Lydia casts an eye around the room. She needs something for her hands to do, or, better yet, something to preoccupy her mind. A full distraction –</p><p>Her eyes land on the living room. It never did recover from Stiles’s first research frenzy, and it has only turned into more of a hazardous space since.</p><p>Lydia turns to Jordan. “You take the bookshelves, I’ll handle the research?”</p><p>“Sounds good.”</p><p>Which is how, forty-five minutes later, Jordan is assembling the second of three bookshelves Stiles had recently ordered under Lydia’s threat to <em>organize, Stiles, damn it</em>, and Lydia has color coded, labeled, and neatly stacked a quarter of Stiles’s research. It would be faster if Lydia’s task were mere organization; with the amount of loose-leave and flash cards Stiles uses, more of her mental energy goes towards deciphering his handwriting and what organization logic Stiles seems to apply to his research methods and grouping of materials.</p><p>Jordan’s drill shuts off, and he whips around to face Lydia. “Did you feel that?” he asks.</p><p>Lydia frowns. “Feel what?”</p><p>“I don’t – something like a vibration, in the space between us. Like we were tied to opposite ends of a string and it was plucked.”</p><p>Lydia shakes her head. “Are you –”</p><p>Before she can finish, she sees Jordan shiver and a bewildered look appear in his eye. “You need to go to Melia’s,” Jordan says urgently, already standing up and grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch.</p><p>“Why?” Lydia asks, even as she rushes to her own room to grab a cardigan.</p><p>Jordan laughs incredulously. “I don’t know. I just <em>know</em>. Which seems to be the only way I can do anything these days.”</p><p>“We’ll figure it out,” Lydia promises, grabbing Jordan’s hand as she breezes back through the living room on the way to the door.</p><p>Sure enough, they are twenty paces from the apothecary when sharp pain explodes at the nape of Lydia’s neck. “Catch me,” she warns Jordan before her knees give out and she is swept away –</p><p><em>A van with poor suspension bumps and trundles up a sinuous hill of a road. </em>Again, Lydia can only see what the witch sees, but through a veil of eddies: densely packed trees standing menacingly in the dark of the night on either side of the road, but they swirl into and out of each other in tight, small curls. The radio is on, crackling more than it is playing a classic rock song.</p><p>“<em>Three initial IDs at location, but our scout says two more have arrived.</em>”</p><p>Lydia’s view shifts down to the witch’s lap. Her hands deftly play with one end of a long rope of natural twine, tying and unravelling knots with equal speed.</p><p>“<em>Ready to play?</em>”</p><p>The voice seems to be coming from directly in front of the witch, the question aimed at her.</p><p>“<em>Always</em>,” the witch replies, and Lydia can feel the word vibrate in her own throat.</p><p>The witch’s gaze shifts back out to the road. A green road sign approaches on the shoulder, and Lydia’s heart skips a beat – when they are closer, she will be able to read it in spite of the eddies –</p><p>Only for her to slam back into her own body. Lydia gasps, feeling as though she has been sucker-punched. Looking around, she sees that she is inside the apothecary with most of her weight support by Jordan, who stands behind her with his arms locked under her armpits. “Lydia?” he asks.</p><p>“It’s happening,” she replies. “Where’s Melia?”</p><p>“Here, my darling banshee.” Melia emerges from an aisle, a small basket of ingredients held in one hand. “Are you ready?”</p><p>“Quick,” Lydia urges, “They’re on a road and if we can read the signs –”</p><p>Within a minute, Lydia is back in the padded chair in Melia’s office, a warm pouch of enchanted items and ingredients nested in her palms, but this time, Jordan is with her. “Stand behind her,” Melia instructs him, “and put your hands on the sides of her head, tucking your thumbs beneath her jaw, your index fingers behind her ears, and the rest of your fingers across her temples – good.”</p><p>“What does this do?” Lydia asks. Jordan’s fingers act like partial blinders, but the light pressure is still reassuring.</p><p>Melia’s eyes flick between the two of them. “If he is more susceptible to forces related to the underworld,” Melia says, “you’ll have an easier time pulling energy from him if we need it.”</p><p>Heat flashes through Lydia’s veins. Will Melia ever learn what prior consent is? “Jordan,” Lydia says, trying to look up at him despite the chair and his hands impeding her movement, “you don’t have to.”</p><p>He leans over so they can make eye contact. “I’m here for you,” he says.</p><p>Lydia cannot nod, so she smiles grimly and then looks at Melia. “Now,” she says, and Melia begins her incantation.</p><p>There is the heat from the pouch in her hands, and Melia is still locking Lydia out of the channel connected to her own mind, but Melia lets go far earlier than she did last time. “They just passed the welcome sign on the north side of town,” Melia says, the gold retreating back from her skin to her eyes to nothingness. Jordan releases Lydia’s head, his fingers dragging through her hair.</p><p>Lydia carefully unclenches her hands. No blisters, this time. “I’ll call Derek,” she says.</p><p>“I can contact Shivam,” Jordan offers.</p><p>Melia nods. “I’ll reach out to Stiles,” she says, taking the pouch from Lydia and leaving the room.</p><p>Lydia shivers as she pulls out her phone and dials Derek’s number. He picks up on the first ring. “Is it happening?” he asks.</p><p>“Yes. They just passed the north welcome sign.”</p><p>Derek curses. “Boyd and I are already on our way back. The others –”</p><p>“Jordan has Shivam and Sammy, and Melia is calling Stiles.”</p><p>“I’ll call Isaac.”</p><p>Lydia nods. That will cover everyone who is out right now. A sticky, metallic taste bursts across her tongue. “Be careful,” she tells Derek, suddenly feeling that something is going to go wrong.</p><p>“Be safe,” Derek replies and hangs up.</p><p>When she sets down her phone, Jordan is standing before her. “How are you?” he asks.</p><p>Lydia shakes her head. “Sit on me,” she says.</p><p>Jordan blinks. “I’m – sorry?”</p><p>Lydia beckons him closer, and he complies. She guides him into straddling the chair and sitting on her thighs, one of his hands holding onto the headrest of the chair. In this close proximity, Lydia only has to lean forward to rest her forehead against Jordan’s chest – which she does.</p><p>“I’m not crushing you, am I?” Jordan asks, concerned.</p><p>Lydia shakes her head, still hidden in the cavity of his chest. “Physical grounding helps me feel human,” she explains. “I like being reminded of gravity.”</p><p>“Okay. Let me know if it gets uncomfortable.”</p><p>The only discomfort she feels is the metallic taste in her mouth. She runs her tongue over her teeth and against her cheeks; she did not bite herself, and her gums are fine, so it is not actual blood. <em>It’s nothing</em>, Lydia lies to herself, and concentrates on the rise and fall of Jordan’s chest.</p><p>She feels resettled within a couple minutes, but she does not make to move for a while. She has missed closeness for the sake of closeness, she realizes, and the longer they sit, the more Jordan relaxes, too. His hands come down to rest above Lydia’s hips, his cheek pressed to the top of her head.</p><p>They cannot stay in Melia’s office forever, though. “Can we go back?” Lydia asks.</p><p>Jordan lifts his head and clambers off her lap, looking far from graceful as he does so. Lydia laughs, and Jordan unashamedly smiles back at her.</p><p>They leave Melia’s office, and as they pass the register, between one step and the next, Lydia –</p><p>–<em> is in the woods</em>, looking at the forest floor from a vantage point near the tree tops. This is not the witch; this is Lydia’s own instincts, wrenching her into a different reality.</p><p>From her bird’s eye view, Lydia can just make out men and women dressed in dark clothes and armed to the teeth pointing flashlights at two figures at the center of their circle. One figure holds rope and stands above the other, who is bound with zip-ties and gagged with a handkerchief.</p><p>Lydia suddenly swoops down, the figures in the center of the circle becoming clearer. There is a glint of moonlight on metal as the witch – because it <em>must</em> be the witch holding the rope – draws a knife, and the figure on the ground begins to struggle in earnest. Dark hair falls away from the victim’s face, and Lydia’s <em>gut plummets with dread and she</em> –</p><p>– stumbles and just catches herself, grabbing onto Jordan’s arm. “Lydia?” he asks.</p><p>Lydia gasps, feeling a dreadfully familiar pressure building in her chest. “I need Derek.”</p><p>Jordan calls, and even ten seconds of silence is too much for Lydia to bear. She pulls out her phone and calls Stiles, and as the line starts to ring, Jordan shakes his head. “No answer,” he says.</p><p>Stiles, thankfully, picks up. “Lyds?” he asks.</p><p>“You need to call Isaac,” Lydia blurts.</p><p>“Isaac’s with me and Erica,” Stiles says, confusion clear in his tone. “Lydia, what’s –”</p><p>“Where’s Cora?”</p><p>“She’s headed back to yours. Derek didn’t want to put her through a crime scene again. Lydia, what’s going on?”</p><p>Pain stabs her neck, and God, not <em>now!</em> Lydia shoves her phone into Jordan’s chest and with a blink –</p><p>– <em>the woods</em>, illuminated by flashlight beams and the moon, the light cutting strangely through the eddies that mar what the witch is trying to show Lydia. On a layer of dead leaves, writhing on the ground, is Cora Hale, dried blood trailing from a head wound. The knife is still in the witch’s periphery, but it drops out of sight as the witch’s arms go slack. “<em>Cora</em>,” the witch whispers.</p><p>There is devastated recognition in her voice, and <em>how does the witch know Cora?</em> Lydia wonders, but before she can follow that train of thought, the witch kneels andlooks at the ground, clearing away leaves and soil until she finds hard-packed dirt. “<em>We’re in the northwest part of the woods</em>,” the witch says urgently, and Lydia realizes the witch is talking to <em>her</em>. “<em>We’re north of the river than runs into town from the mountains, at a clearing where some of the oldest trees are. There are eight of his hunters with me, and another four are patrolling the woods, two to the east and two to the south.</em>”</p><p>As she speaks, she uses the tip of the knife to draw a crude map in the dirt. Lydia commits it to memory, even as a growing certainty takes hold in her – she knows the clearing that the witch is describing.</p><p>“<em>I can drag it out,</em>” the witch says, “<em>but bring everyone you have and bring them</em> fast.”</p><p>The witch returns to Cora, dropping to the ground to sit on top of Cora’s hips. “<em>Trust me, Cora</em>,” the witch says as she begins to thread her rope around Cora’s wrists. Cora’s claws come out, but there is nothing she can do as the rope covers the zip-ties and begins to wind upward –</p><p>With a gasp, Lydia returns to her present, yet again being supported by Jordan. Melia stands before her with Lydia’s phone pressed to her ear. “What did she show you?” Melia asks.</p><p>“It’s Cora,” Lydia says, “and we need to go, <em>now</em>.”</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>The speedometer on the Camaro does not dip below 40, but Jordan manages the curves and the turns with flawless precision. Lydia’s fists are balled in her skirt, not because of Jordan’s driving, but because of the pressure in her chest. It has not risen much, yet, but Lydia is terrified of what it means. It has been so long since her banshee instincts have demanded a proper, harbinger <em>scream</em>.</p><p>Behind her, Melia is on the phone, giving updates and directions to everyone involved in this thing. When Lydia glances at the Camaro’s side mirror, the pulsing golden glow of Melia’s eyes is an eerie sight in the dark.</p><p>A hand brushes her wrist, and Lydia jumps.</p><p>“Sorry,” Jordan says, eyes glued on the road. “What’s the plan?”</p><p>“Melia stays in the car. We distract and stall.”</p><p>“I will not <em>stay</em> <em>in the car</em>,” Melia interjects.</p><p>“You’re the only one of us who can make a difference from afar,” Lydia snaps. “Put trackers on me and Jordan, stay in communication with the rest of them, only risk yourself if you absolutely have to.”</p><p>“She’s right, Melia,” Jordan says.</p><p>Melia glares but goes back to her phone conversation – with Shivam and Sammy, Lydia thinks, who are the farthest away but can coordinate more of the BHPD. Her non-argument is the closest thing to agreement that Lydia will get, so she takes it.</p><p>“We distract and stall,” Lydia repeats to Jordan, “and try to figure out how the hell the witch knows Cora.”</p><p>“She knows her?”</p><p>“She recognized her, and for some reason, that’s enough to change everything.”</p><p>They reach Old Post Road, and as they approach the dirt parking lot that sits on the trailhead for this particular hike into the preserve, Jordan leans forward and squints. “There’s a couple cars there,” he says. “Tinted windows. One of the plates is out of state.”</p><p>“Park in Mabel Wieler’s driveway,” Melia says. “She owes me.”</p><p>It is a short gravel driveway, leading up to an adorable cottage whose yard bursts with flowers. “Don’t leave unless absolutely necessary,” Lydia reminds Melia.</p><p>“I’ll be the judge of that,” Melia replies, but she settles into her seat.</p><p>Lydia turns to Jordan. He looks calm, ready – and of course he does. He is ex-military, a deputy. “Let’s go,” he tells her.</p><p>They have one weak flashlight with them, but with the moon as bright as it is, they do not bother to risk using it – not yet, at least. The pressure has climbed to Lydia’s clavicle, and she finds herself clenching her jaw, as if that will help. She leads the way based on a rough mental map that combines her own knowledge of the woods with the crude map the witch had drawn and a vague gut intuition. If they do this right, they can thread between the two patrol groups and reach the clearing where Cora is.</p><p>“This is near the Nemeton,” Jordan whispers at one point.</p><p>“Yes,” Lydia answers. The clearing abuts the space where the Nemeton stands, separated only by a thin line of pine trees. The closer they get to their destination, the harder it is for her to tell, on instinct, where they should be getting; her supernatural senses are latching onto the darkness that the Nemeton spreads through the very earth beneath their feet.</p><p>A twig snaps beneath Lydia’s foot, and she freezes, ears alert. Jordan does the same behind her.</p><p>A rustle of wind through the trees, the skitter of a small animal across the ground.</p><p>“Keep going,” Jordan says.</p><p>At the rise of a small hill, they can see flashlights flickering between the trees. Lydia exhales with relief, the best she can with the tension in her chest. They are nearly there –</p><p>“<em>Hey!</em>”</p><p>Branches snap and undergrowth crunches under heavy boots. “Run!” Jordan shouts, even as Lydia breaks into a sprint, terror ripping the wind from her lungs –</p><p>A force slams into her, taking her down. Lydia shrieks as her nose cracks against the ground and forest debris cuts into her skin. “That’s right, girlie,” a voice growls into her ear. Lydia’s hands are wrenched behind her and fastened with what is undoubtedly a zip-tie. “Stupid shoes to wear for a nature walk, huh? Wanted to look cute for your boyfriend?”</p><p>She is dragged upright by her bound wrists. Lydia whips her head around, first to see her captor, a tall woman with sharp cheekbones and thin lips, and then to see Jordan – also zip-tied, but kneeling on the ground with a gun held to his temple by a gray-haired man.</p><p>The pressure in Lydia’s chest rises. Blood drips from her nose to the rise of her lip.</p><p>“What are you folks doing out here so late?” the man asks.</p><p>“Taking a walk,” Jordan answers tightly.</p><p>“So far from the path? With your flashlight off?” He kicks the flashlight in question. “Try again, son. Wrong answer means a bullet in your skull.”</p><p>Lydia’s heart leaps into her throat. “We want to see the witch!” she blurts.</p><p>The hunters turn to her. “What makes you think we can take you to a witch?” the man asks probingly.</p><p>Lydia’s mind scrambles. He is testing how much Lydia knows. She needs something plausible, a non-truth cloaked in truth. “She contacted me. She said – she’s ready for me, now.”</p><p>The hunters exchange looks. Lydia feels the woman behind her shrug. “Could be that side project she mentioned,” she says, and what? A side project?</p><p>The man assesses Lydia and Jordan. “Fine,” he says. He smacks Jordan’s temple with the barrel of his gun. “Get up,” he orders, “And don’t try any heroics.”</p><p>Jordan looks at Lydia as he rises, and she nods subtly at him. They need to get to the clearing – to Cora.</p><p>Within a minute, escorted with the hunters’ hands on their bound wrists and weapons pressed into their backs, they break the tree line, where another hunter immediately sees them. “Ricky, Joanne, what the fuck?” he asks.</p><p>“The redhead says she was contacted,” the woman says.</p><p>Lydia ignores their exchange, staring with intent horror at the center of the hunter’s circle. She has seen glimpses of the sacrifices before, in her visions and in crime scene photos, but standing here, it feels viscerally real and all the more paralyzing when she knows who is wrapped in layers of rope and left lying supine over a tree stump. As far as Lydia can see, there is no blood, but that does nothing to abate the fear and revulsion clawing at her throat. Her body shudders with the grotesque energy vibrating through the air and coursing through the earth, and she wonders if Jordan can feel it, too.</p><p>“Blake!” the third hunter calls.</p><p>The witch turns, eyes flashing silver. “What, Jonas?” she demands.</p><p>Then she notices Lydia and Jordan. For a second, she stares; then she barks a laugh. “You idiots got lucky,” she tells the hunters, standing up.</p><p>The man holding Jordan shifts uncomfortably. “What?”</p><p>The witch – Blake – flings a hand at Cora. “This is a terrible specimen, Ricky. She’ll give me next to nothing. Did you even check before you decided to give her to me?”</p><p>Ricky stutters, “I – I did, the way you taught us to –”</p><p>Blake approaches their group, ignoring Ricky. “Give her to me,” she orders, staring Lydia down.</p><p>“If you want a human to supplement, wouldn’t you want the larger –”</p><p>“Shut up, Joanne,” the witch snaps. “That’s a banshee.”</p><p>Joanne cusses and pushes Lydia away, propelling her towards the witch. Blake laughs, but there is no mirth behind her eyes. “You’re worth much more to me,” she says and roughly grabs Lydia by the arm.</p><p>Lydia yelps as she is dragged towards the center of the clearing. “Lydia!” Jordan shouts, and there is a solid thump, then silence. Lydia flinches, but he is merely unconscious; Lydia would <em>know</em> if he were dead.</p><p>“This is your idea of reinforcements?” Blake snips quietly at Lydia.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Lydia replies, fighting against the pressure that is now prickling at the hollow of her throat. “You have a <em>side project?</em>”</p><p>“Not your concern,” the witch replies. She throws Lydia to the ground nearby Cora, and Lydia just avoids smacking her face against the ground again. The witch is immediately on her, tightly tying Lydia’s ankles together.</p><p>“Of course it’s my concern,” Lydia retorts.</p><p>“They’ll be less suspicious if you cry,” the witch snarks and walks a few paces away to a duffle bag.</p><p>Lying on her stomach, Lydia has to wriggle in order to turn her head to face Cora. They lock eyes. There is terror written across Cora’s face, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Do you know her?” Lydia asks.</p><p>Cora’s expression dances with a hundred thoughts, but Lydia frustratingly cannot understand any of them.</p><p>Blake returns with four metal stakes and a new coil of rope. She takes her time pacing a square around Lydia, driving the stakes deep into the ground with magic. “You’re not crying,” she observes lightly.</p><p>“You’re not going to do this,” Lydia says.</p><p>“I won’t do this to her,” the witch replies, glancing at Cora. She then shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I won’t do it to you.”</p><p>Lydia’s blood boils. Here she is, helping this woman save Cora, and that is the thanks Lydia gets? “You’re insane.”</p><p>“And you’re irritating.” She kneels and begins to wrap Lydia’s torso with the rope, using the knife to cut segments when necessary. Even Lydia can tell Blake is moving slowly, just compared to the way in which Lydia has seen her hands play with rope without a thought.</p><p>“The fuck is taking so long?” a hunter calls.</p><p>“I’m doing my job!” Blake yells, her voice ringing directly in Lydia’s ear.</p><p>“Do it faster!”</p><p>The witch shoots to her feet. “For fuck’s sake, Thomas, do I rush you when you do your thing?” she shouts at the hunter.</p><p>There is the sound of a safety clicking off, and Lydia whips her head to the sound. Joanne has her gun trained on the witch. “Why did you contact the banshee?”</p><p>Lydia’s throat begins to constrict.</p><p>Blake narrows her eyes at Joanne. “Excuse me?”</p><p>“Banshee’s words, not mine,” Joanne says. “You’re faster than this – why are you taking so long? Are you trying to pull something?”</p><p>More weapons come up, trained at Blake. “I don’t know what she was talking about,” the witch says, slowly backing up until she is nearly on top of Cora. “But you <em>do</em> know how banshees, work, right? They’re attracted to death.”</p><p>“We also know how witches work,” Ricky says. “Can’t trust them.”</p><p>“I’m doing my fucking job, aren’t I?”</p><p>“You should have drawn blood twenty minutes ago.”</p><p>Blake looks around, lips curling into a snarl. “Fine. Have it your way.”</p><p>She cuts her hands across the air in front of her, and flames burst to life in a circle around her and Cora, ten feet high and a blistering blue. Lydia desperately, awkwardly rolls away, the sudden heat so intense it feels like her eyebrows have been singed off. The pressure in her throat is building, waves of energy emanating from her chest, but with the ring of fire now protecting Cora, there is no telling whose death or deaths her scream is meant to portend –</p><p>“I will not harm her,” Blake declares, “and neither will you!”</p><p>For a second, Lydia’s world goes black –</p><p>– and then she <em>screams</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>IX.</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>The scream reverberates like a shock wave through the woods, knocking Stiles back a step. He pushes through and keeps sprinting for the flames, as Erica and Isaac do ahead of him. <em>Lydia</em>, Stiles’s mind supplies, because he has only heard a banshee scream to herald death once before, but it is a sound and feeling he will never forget or mis-recognize for the rest of his life.</p><p>Erica and Isaac stop just before the tree line of the clearing. Their eyes are glowing from their beta shift, and Erica rasps through her fangs when she says, “Holy shit, Stiles.”</p><p>Stiles takes in the clearing. A wall of pure blue flame surrounds two figures; nearby on the ground, identifiable by her hair, is Lydia. Parrish is unconscious and slumped on the ground, forgotten, outside of the ring of hunters that surround and have their weapons pointed at the fire.</p><p>A fire like that, Stiles knows, is burning at so high a temperature it has to be fueled by a moment’s rage and cannot last that long, meaning the people behind it – the witch and Cora, it has to be – will soon be without protection. Erica and Isaac had incapacitated two hunters on their way here, and there are ten scattered in this clearing, meaning they should be all accounted for. None of them look old enough to be Gerard. Derek and Boyd were only eight minutes behind them on the road, but they are both stronger wolves than Erica and Isaac, so they should be here soon.</p><p>“Okay,” Stiles says. “I’m striking first. You two, go around the sides and come at them once I have their attention. Get Lydia out of there, and Parrish.”</p><p>Isaac says, “But Cora –”</p><p>“Cora should be safe as long as the witch is alive,” Stiles says. “Now go.”</p><p>The betas slink away, quick and quiet. Stiles double-checks the gun in his hands – fully loaded – and does the same for the one holstered around his shoulder. Ten hunters, one witch, and twelve bullets. Should not be a problem.</p><p>He ducks behind a tree and sets his sights on the hunters closest to him. The light of the fire sharply outlines their silhouettes, making them easier targets than if Stiles had a flashlight. <em>One, two, and three</em>, he thinks to himself, envisioning the subtle adjustments he will need to make to hit all three marks within a single breath.</p><p>In another context, Stiles might feel bad about shooting someone from behind, but the thought of the case files in Stiles’s possession and the memory of Erica and Isaac’s outraged terror when they heard Cora was in the witch’s grasp are enough to make Stiles throw a vague notion of fairness to the wind. Stiles might never be able to wash the blood from his hands, but it has been years since he has really worried about that. Whether it is karma, the universe, afterlife judgement, or something else that Stiles will one day have to answer to, Stiles is fine with it, so long as the red on his hands keeps others from staining theirs.</p><p>Without sparing further thought, Stiles inhales and pulls the trigger.</p><p>The first two immediately drop, bullets lodged in their hearts. By the second shot, the hunters have caught on, and Stiles’s third target shifts enough that Stiles’s bullet clips his shoulder instead of striking true. Stiles ducks behind a tree as a shower of response fire slices the air around him. Looking back into the woods, Stiles spots two sets of glowing eyes, one red and one gold, approaching from the dark.</p><p>“Eight hunters and the witch left,” Stiles says, knowing Derek and Boyd can hear him though he does not raise his voice. “Erica and Isaac are grabbing Lydia and Parrish.”</p><p>Boyd veers off to the side, but Derek keeps pushing straight, darting from tree to tree to avoid the bullets that are still coming in waves. “What the fuck, Derek,” Stiles bites, “Go <em>around</em>.”</p><p>“Cora?” Derek asks when he is close enough for Stiles to hear him.</p><p>“She’s safe with the witch.”</p><p>A growl escapes Derek’s lips, and Stiles grimaces. He also would not want to hear that his sister was <em>safe</em> in the hands of someone who was going to sacrifice her. “I’ll draw fire here for as long as I can,” Stiles says. “Go around –”</p><p>A human scream cuts through the night, followed by a howl of pain, and the bullets stop flying in their direction. Stiles looks at Derek, and they both take off for the clearing.</p><p>Erica is wrestling with a hunter near Lydia, whom Stiles now sees is tied up but still conscious. He thinks Erica might be bleeding from somewhere, but he does not have much time to think about that, because a hunter takes notice of him and Derek and opens their mouth to shout. Stiles’s bullet is faster, though, and then Derek is running at another hunter, at the same time that Isaac and Boyd burst out of the tree line.</p><p>There are still four hunters concentrating on the circle of flames around the witch and Cora. One of them tries to shoot, but the bullet ricochets as if the fire were a solid wall. “Cut the shit, bitch!” one of them shouts. “You’re surrounded!”</p><p>Stiles adjusts his angle and shoots at the fire. The flames flicker on contact – the first sign that the witch is fatiguing – but Stiles’s bullet redirects as expected and strikes one of the hunters, who crumples to the ground. Off to his right, there is a roar, followed by a human scream that is abruptly cut short. Five left, Stiles thinks grimly.</p><p>He darts closer to the fire, trying to calculate another angled shot, when one of the hunters holsters their gun and whips out a crossbow. There is a strange glint to the loaded bolt, and the witch must realize what it is the instant that Stiles does – she begins to chant an incantation at the same time that Stiles shouts, “No!”</p><p>The crossbow fires, and the enchanted bolt slices straight through the flames and strikes the witch. She shrieks in pain and the fire collapses, leaving her and Cora exposed.</p><p>Stiles draws his second gun to lay a round of cover fire. He empties his chamber doing so, but the distraction gives the witch the chance to blast the crossbow out of the hunter’s hands and to throw a knife with deadly accuracy into his neck. The bolt is still lodged in her chest, near her clavicle, but the witch ignores it, lunging toward the dead hunter to grab his gun. She turns around, and Stiles finally gets a good look at her face, and <em>what the fuck</em>, it is the woman from the hardware store who looked like she wanted to murder Stiles for bumping into her.</p><p>She sees Stiles, and the recognition in her face instantly turns to vengeance. She raises her appropriated gun, and Stiles instinctively dives to the side –</p><p>Pain slices through his arm, and Stiles hisses at the sudden sensation of blood running down his skin and soaking his sleeve. It feels deep, but at least the bullet is not <em>inside</em> him, and he does not have the time to think about whether it is fatal. “I’m trying to help you!” he shouts, indignant.</p><p>“You owe me a life,” she retorts. Which, <em>what?</em></p><p>Another bolt imbeds itself in her thigh, and the witch screams, forgetting Stiles for the moment. She turns on the hunters, who have both switched to crossbows.</p><p>Stiles takes the chance to rush to Cora. He grabs the knife strapped to his calf and begins sawing at the ropes, careful not to nick Cora with his blade; a second later, Isaac is with him, removing Cora’s gag.</p><p>Cora splutters for breath, and Isaac places a hand on her head wound, his veins going black as he draws pain from her. “We’re here, we got you,” Isaac reassures her.</p><p>“I know her,” Cora says desperately, voice cracking from dryness.</p><p>Stiles glances up from where he is working on the rope binding Cora’s wrists. “Do you know why she’s been trying to kill me?” he asks, because the witch has to be the person behind the lame assassination attempts – they started after he encountered her at the hardware store, and if her main concern has been fucking <em>sacrifices</em>, it makes sense that assassination was an afterthought.</p><p>Cora shakes her head. Stiles slices through the zip-tie binding her wrists, and Cora’s claws instantly come out, shredding the rope around her legs. “She was <em>dead</em>,” Cora says, incredulous, and God, that seems to be the theme of the week.</p><p>“Stiles!” Lydia shouts.</p><p>Stiles immediately ducks and rolls, and a bolt buries itself in the ground where he was just kneeling.</p><p>He looks up in time to see the witch, holding a crossbow, get tackled by Derek. Derek raises a clawed hand, red eyes trained on the witch’s throat –</p><p>“Derek!” Cora shouts, scrambling to her feet, “Wait!”</p><p>Derek looks at his sister, and in his second of hesitation, the witch hits him with a wave of energy square to the chest. Derek goes flying, and the witch gets to her feet, orange flames bursting to life in her palms. Her eyes dart between Boyd, Erica, and Isaac, who come at her from all sides. “Stay back,” she warns, eyes glinting silver.</p><p>“Wait!” Cora shouts again, running towards the witch. Erica twists to catch Cora around the waist, and the witch shoots a whip of flame that strikes between Erica's shoulders. She howls, crumpling, and Cora yells, “Julia! Please!”</p><p>The flames splutter to nothing in the witch’s palms, and darkness falls. Stiles blinks rapidly, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the moonlight. His pulse thuds unnaturally loudly in the sudden silence.</p><p>For a moment, no one moves; then Derek stumbles to his feet and draws up to Erica's side. “You know her?” he asks his sister, his red eyes trained on the witch.</p><p>Cora stares at the witch, who stares right back, chest heaving. “She’s the scent I’ve been recognizing in the woods,” Cora says, voice laden with emotion. “She – she died, saving me from my former alpha.”</p><p>“I didn’t,” the witch says. She wobbles and suddenly drops to her knees.</p><p>Cora rushes forward to support the witch, and it is like a spell is broken. Derek and Isaac cautiously drift closer to Cora and the witch; Boyd gestures for Erica to follow him, and they retreat to take care of Lydia and Parrish. Stiles, mind reeling with facts and questions, blood soaking his sleeve and his side – when did he get that wound? – is left to drag himself toward the woman whom he has never met but who seems determined to end his life.</p><p>When he gets closer, Stiles can see Cora’s hands fluttering over the bolts. Blood has already pooled at the wound sites, more than might be expected, and Stiles suspects one of them has nicked a major vein. “I – what can we do?” Cora asks.</p><p>“Nothing,” Stiles says. “She’ll bleed out in minutes if you take them out.”</p><p>The witch glares at Stiles. “<em>You</em>,” she says, but there is less heat in her voice.</p><p>Stiles registers Lydia coming up to his side, but he keeps his eyes on the witch. “Why do I owe you a life?” he asks.</p><p>The witch shivers, and Cora pulls the witch against her own body. “She’s dying,” Lydia murmurs, words meant not just for Stiles, but for the werewolves too.</p><p>“I paid you to rescue Cora,” the witch says, “not kill the alpha pack.”</p><p><em>Julia</em>, Stiles realizes. Cora had called her Julia. Thing start to fall into place.</p><p>Not everyone has the same context as Stiles, though. “What are you talking about?” Derek growls.</p><p>“What happened to you?” Cora asks more softly.</p><p>Julia looks up at Cora. “After I told you to run,” she says, “Kali tore me up and left me for dead. But I was –” She coughs, and blood trickles from the corner of her mouth.Cora wipes it away with a tattered sleeve. “I was found by hunters. They offered me life in exchange for servitude. I … I swore their oath, because I knew I had to get to Kali.”</p><p>Cora shakes her head, tears glimmering in her eyes. “Kali lost her mind.”</p><p>“Not completely.”</p><p>“Julia –”</p><p>“No,” Julia insists. “If she had lost her mind, she would have killed me. But she only left me for dead.” She finds Stiles’s gaze, then. “You took her from me,” she says, “And that’s why I want you dead.”</p><p>Stiles keeps his jaw shut. There are plenty of things he could say right now – plenty of judgements and opinions he could share – but it is not the time for that, and Cora looks like she is about to break.</p><p>“He’ll know,” the witch continues, putting weight and significance into her words as she narrows her eyes at Stiles. “He’ll know that I’m gone, and he’ll run.”</p><p>Stiles swallows. He knows what Julia is asking of him. Of course, she does not know that he already decided to do that very thing, and clearly, she expects him to die trying, because Stiles <em>knows</em> she does not actually give a shit whether Gerard Argent lives or dies, now that she is fatally wounded. She just wants Stiles dead. “I know,” Stiles replies.</p><p>Agreement passes between them, and the witch turns back to Cora, who only looks more lost. “Who will know? What’s going on? Why – why didn’t you try to find me?”</p><p>Lydia inhales sharply. “Because she’s obligated to Gerard Argent.”</p><p>Cora’s head snaps up to look at Lydia, but the witch just scowls. “What she said.”</p><p>“And Gerard knows what he’s dealing with,” Lydia goes on. “The oath isn’t just about service, is it? You can’t say his name, reveal his location, leave a certain radius beyond him, harm him, more like that.”</p><p>“I would have put you in danger,” Julia tells Cora, confirming Lydia’s speculations.</p><p>Julia shudders and coughs, more blood spilling from her mouth, and Cora presses a hand to Julia’s chest wound. “We can take you to Melia,” she says desperately. “She can save you, and we can help you break the oath –”</p><p>“No,” Julia says. “Not the oath that I made.” Her eyes crack open; silver briefly flickers across them. “Besides, she’s already coming.”</p><p>Stiles follow her gaze into the woods behind him. A soft golden radiance approaches from between the trees, the first natural and comforting light Stiles has seen all night.</p><p>He turns back to find Julia is staring at him. “The sacrifices were sustaining him,” he guesses, and he receives a nod in response.</p><p>“Julia, please,” Cora begs. “I can’t – I can’t lose –”</p><p>Julia shakes her head. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she tells Cora, “I didn’t know you were here. If I had known …”</p><p>Stiles feels the warmth radiating from Melia before she draws up to their circle. Golden light emanates from her entire body, and Julia has to squint to look directly at her. “Melia Mahealani,” Julia acknowledges.</p><p>“You have tainted this land with cursed blood and darkness,” Melia intones. Her eyes are also pure gold. “You owe a great debt, and the earth does not forget.”</p><p>Julia strains to look up at Cora. “Do you like it here?” she asks.</p><p>“I do. I … I want this to be home.”</p><p>Julia closes her eyes. “Okay,” she sighs, and reopens her eyes. She seeks out Melia and says, “Take me to your tree.”</p><p>Stiles takes a step back as he watches Julia, with Cora and Derek’s help, get to her feet. Derek looks to Melia, who nods, and the siblings turn and begin to walk towards the Nemeton, taking most of Julia’s weight. Melia and Isaac follow, and Lydia starts forward, but pauses when she notices Stiles has not moved. “Stiles?” she asks, voice thin.</p><p>There is more than one question swimming in her green eyes, but Stiles ignores them for now. “Go with them,” he says. “I’m gonna –”</p><p>He vaguely jerks his head in the direction of Boyd and Erica and Parrish. Lydia’s brow furrows, her mouth opening to say something undoubtedly sharp and too-knowing, so Stiles cuts her off with a reassuring smile. “I’ll see you soon.”</p><p>Stiles turns and walks away before she can say anything more. For a second, he thinks she might go after him, but when she moves again, her footsteps fade in the opposite direction. A part of Stiles briefly wishes he were not so good at lying, but he quickly shakes the thought away.</p><p>Avoiding the bodies of the hunters and steering clear of Erica, Boyd, and Parrish, Stiles plunges back into the dark woods.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Stiles finally catches up to him in Idaho, on a plot of land where there remains a small cabin that is part of a larger, abandoned potato farm. If Stiles cared more, he might spare a thought for how pathetic an end this is for the once-renowned hunter – well over ninety years old, running on energy stolen from sacrificed innocent beings, body riddled with cancer, dying in a fucking shack that has nothing in it but dust and spuds – but Stiles stopped caring two and a half days ago, when they crossed into Washington state. He wants this to be <em>over</em>.</p><p>And then it is – over, that is. Gerard still packs a mean fucking punch, and Stiles knows he will be sporting his new black eye for at least a week, but eventually Stiles puts a bullet in Gerard’s skull and watches as stolen energy, black and sinuous like incense smoke, rises out of the old man’s facial orifices and dissipates into the early morning air. The body shrivels until it looks like the hunter has been dead for weeks or months instead of a minute, but Stiles does not trust it, so he douses the corpse and the floor around it with gasoline, takes a healthy step back, and throws a lit match onto the mess.</p><p>When the flames die and Stiles can no longer stand the smell, he stumbles out of the cabin and into the yard, where he plops his ass in the middle of the scratchy, unkempt lawn. The sun is bright. Stiles tilts his face towards it, closing his eyes. This far north, a chill has already set in, and the rays on his face are a kiss of warmth that remind him that the memory of summer is there even in the coldest of moments. He inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of green and autumn wind and soil, and drags his palms against the ground, relishing in the way the grass pricks into his skin.</p><p>There is a stolen car waiting for him at the end of the driveway, but something deep inside him does not yet want this stillness to end. Sometimes, Stiles forgets what a miracle it is to breathe. A muscle involuntarily tightens, space is made for the lungs, and suddenly everything from outside rushes into the body, seeking to fill the space created, all for the sake of sustaining a life. <em>His</em> life. He never asked for breath, never asked anything of the air around him, and yet …</p><p>He exhales and opens his eyes. His ears prick at the sound of an automobile approaching, and he turns to squint at the road. Soon enough, a pick-up truck rounds the base of the hill that obscures the southbound half of the road, rattling along like the shitty clunker it looks to be. Stiles’s hand drifts to his gun out of habit. Maybe someone does live further north up the road, he considers. But then he hears another car – and then a third –</p><p>With a groan, Stiles forces himself to stand up. He thought he had ditched the rest of Gerard’s employees for good in Oregon; he supposes tenacity is a trait that all decent hunters possess, even if that tenacity is bullheaded.</p><p>He has time, at least, to amble over to his stolen car and pop the trunk. He reloads his gun, slides it into his shoulder holster, and picks a few more choice weapons before pulling out his bow and arrow. He is a little rusty – <em>Sorry, Allison</em>, he thinks – but he manages to shoot out a tire on all three vehicles coming his way. When the hunters begin to pile out of their cars, Stiles trades out for his gun and takes up a sniper position behind his stolen car, which has already gained its fare share of bullet holes. Angry voices begin to pepper the air, disturbing the momentary peace Stiles had found, and God, he is tired.</p><p>“Come and fucking get it,” Stiles murmurs and fires the first shot.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Fall seems to come to Beacon Hills all at once, the trees instantly changing from green to a lush mix of oranges, reds, and golds. Birdsong still chimes throughout the town every morning, and in the evenings, outside of the town center, choruses of frogs can be heard from every pond and stream. But more striking than any of the seasonal changes is the absence of darkness in the energy that steadily pulses in the earth and through the air. Space itself exudes warmth and comfort that feel like long-lost companions returned home.</p><p>Every morning, when Lydia wakes, she has to convince herself again that all of this is real.</p><p>She lies in her bed and recalls the memory of standing before the Nemeton, watching Cora say goodbye to Julia and then witnessing Julia pull the bolt out of her shoulder and letting her blood pour onto the tree. She recalls Melia chanting in an indecipherable language, glowing a brighter and brighter gold. She recalls the heady sensation of feeling Julia’s life force burst into the Nemeton and begin to burn the poison of dark magic away, starting with the trunk and then the branches and roots and then diving into the very ground itself, hurtling at a speed faster than comprehension farther and farther away.</p><p>Lydia remembers it all, pinches herself, and confirms that this is not a dream.</p><p>And then it is easy to slip into the new normal. Derek and Lydia run the bakery with the help of Isaac, who slinked into the kitchen one morning, started doing dishes, and has not stopped showing up since Derek never kicked him out. Boyd, Jordan, and the rest of the BHPD have settled back into routine operation, the case on Julia Baccari – her full name provided by Cora – officially closed. Every evening for dinner, Derek and Lydia go to Boyd’s house, where Isaac, Erica, and Cora have all permanently moved in. On the weekends, Lydia spends her afternoons with Danny, who is adjusting to being a magus, and Melia, who is training Danny as she slowly loosens the mute and bind that she had held on her grandson for twenty-two years. Saturday evenings, Lydia and Jordan experiment more with their psychic connection, feeling out all the different ways in which they can sense each other without touching and testing the limitations to their abilities.</p><p>It is a new normal that Lydia is becoming attached to at a terrifyingly fast rate, and the only reason she has not completely lost herself to it is the glaring emptiness at the center of it all: Stiles is missing.</p><p>When she looks back on it, Lydia does not know why on earth she let Stiles walk away from her. As she runs through those last moments, over and over, it becomes so <em>obvious</em> that the witch was telling him to go after Gerard, and like the imbecile he is, Stiles complied and did not bother to tell any of them what he was doing. “I’ll see you soon,” he had said to Lydia, and she had <em>trusted</em> him. Damn him for working his way under her skin without her noticing it, she thinks, but Lydia cannot sustain her irritation for long when the worry comes creeping back in.</p><p>It took them half a day to realize he was no longer in Beacon Hills. Lydia and Derek combed through their apartment, which was still full of Stiles’s belongings, but did not find anything of his missing; Erica and Isaac broke into 181 Birch Street, where they did find some essentials missing, but his Jeep was sitting in the driveway with its keys hanging on a hook by the front door. Boyd and Cora found a fresh scent trail near the town line and followed it to the next town over, but it abruptly ended in a parking lot for a minimart. Asking around confirmed that Stiles had been there, but no one seems to have seen him leave. Calls to his phone go unanswered, which is worrying until Erica finds his cell phone in the glove compartment of the Jeep, at which point it becomes alarming – why did Stiles not want to be reached?</p><p>“He’ll come back,” Jordan insists when he and Lydia are talking about Stiles one evening. “He would never leave that Jeep behind.”</p><p>Lydia does not think Jordan is wrong, per se. She just cannot help being anxious and a bit pissed.</p><p>“Stiles can handle himself,” Cora reassures them all over dinner one night. Lydia glances at Derek, who studies his plate and does not eat.</p><p>Neither Derek nor Stiles knows it, but all that time ago, the night after they learned Melia’s secret, Lydia had been woken up by their argument in the living room. Her head had hurt too much for her to want to get up, but she did not have to move to hear the desperation in Stiles’s tirade, and the steady insistence in Derek’s rebuttals. The next day, Stiles had seemed perfectly normal, but Lydia could not forget how close to breaking Stiles had sounded the night before.</p><p>Sure, Stiles can handle himself. But Lydia knows – and she knows Derek knows – that Stiles is far more worn out than he lets on.</p><p>Lydia begins to have dreams of open skies, of rolling expanses of unkempt farmland, of small, derelict buildings going up in smoke. They are not nightmares, but they still leave Lydia waking with a restless, unsettled feeling. She tells Derek about them, and she tells Melia, but no one seems to know what to make of them.</p><p>Lydia takes to carrying Stiles’s cell phone around with her. Rationally, she knows there is no point to it, but something in her believes that if she keeps something of his close to her, she will better be able to sense if something were to happen to him.</p><p>After a week of carrying his phone without it receiving a single notification, she does not expect it to ring, so she jumps and nearly crashes the Camaro into a telephone pole when an unfamiliar ringtone blares in the middle of her morning delivery run.</p><p>Lydia quickly pulls to the side of the road, turns on her hazards, and digs Stiles’s phone out of her purse. The screen is lit up with a selfie of a pale brunette woman and a man with a crooked jaw, with the contact name <em>Allison Argent</em> across the top.</p><p>
  <em>Argent?</em>
</p><p>Lydia answers the call. “Hello?”</p><p>“Stiles!” A male voice shouts.</p><p>“Wait – who is this?” a female voice immediately follows. Allison, it must be.</p><p>“This is Lydia,” Lydia answers. “I’m Stiles’s friend.”</p><p>There is a brief moment of conferring on the other end of the line, and Lydia catches the words <em>redhead</em> and <em>Beacon Hills</em> and <em>scary smart</em>. “We’ve heard so much about you,” the guy says brightly. “How are you? I’m Scott, by the way. We’re calling from Allison’s phone.”</p><p>“She knows that, obviously.”</p><p>“Oh, right. Contacts. Anyway – how are you?”</p><p>“Stiles is gone,” Lydia blurts.</p><p>For a second, there is silence. Then Allison asks, “What do you mean, gone?”</p><p>“He’s not here anymore,” Lydia says. “I don’t know how you know him, but does he do this, ever? Just take off and disappear without notice?”</p><p>“No?” Scott offers.</p><p>“He’ll leave without notice,” Allison says, “but he wouldn’t leave his cell phone behind.”</p><p>“He left his Jeep, too,” Lydia says, knowing that that must also mean something to these two.</p><p>It works; Lydia swears she can feel the sudden tension over the line. “Are you sure he wasn’t taken?” Scott asks, alarmed.</p><p>“He packed some of his things, and people who last saw him a town over say he didn’t seem distressed.”</p><p>“That doesn’t mean –” Allison begins.</p><p>“Are you related to Gerard?” Lydia interrupts.</p><p>“Gerard was my grandfather,” Allison says slowly. “What does that have to do with anything?”</p><p>Lydia gives them the short version of it, from discovering that Gerard was alive, to realizing he was behind the sacrifices, to the witch changing sides (to an extent), to the witch telling Stiles to go after Gerard. “That was seventeen days ago,” Lydia concludes.</p><p>“Fuck,” Scott breathes out.</p><p>“I need to talk to my dad,” Allison says, more to Scott than Lydia.</p><p>There has been something else gnawing at the back of Lydia’s mind, ever since Gerard’s name first came up in Whittemore Bakery. “Are you related to Kate Argent, too?” Lydia asks Allison.</p><p>“Biologically, she’s my aunt,” Allison says shortly. “My dad denounced hunting when I was in elementary school, because when my mom got bitten by a werewolf, Kate killed her. In front of me. We’ve disowned the rest of the Argents.”</p><p>Her tone is angry and clipped, and Lydia grants that Allison has good reason. “Kate Argent hurt people I care about,” Lydia says. “That was the only reason I asked.”</p><p>“I’m not her.”</p><p>“I know you’re not. You’re friends with Stiles.”</p><p>Scott makes a noise of agreement. “Stiles only keeps the best around him.”</p><p>“If Stiles is chasing Gerard,” Lydia says, “Do you know where he could be?”</p><p>“Unfortunately not,” Allison replies. “I’ll talk to my dad, though. He still has a few connections. And … he’ll want to know that his dad isn’t dead.”</p><p>“Hey, keep us updated, okay?” Scott asks. “If you need to unlock Stiles’s phone, he always uses his mother’s birthday for his passwords. Well, except for his PIN code.”</p><p>“Because you told too many people about his mom’s birthday!”</p><p>“He didn’t tell me it was also his PIN!”</p><p>Lydia finds that she is smiling. “Will you call, too, if you find anything out?” she requests.</p><p>“Of course,” Scott answers.</p><p>“It was nice to meet you, Lydia,” Allison says.</p><p>“Hope to meet you in person sometime!” Scott adds.</p><p>The line goes dead, and Lydia’s hand drops to her lap. There is so much Lydia still does not know about Stiles, she realizes. He better come back, she thinks, so she can demand some answers out of him.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>The last time Lydia inadvertently over-caffeinated was four years ago, when both ovens in the bakery had malfunctioned and getting them fixed as soon as possible was 36 hours of a nightmare and a half. Tonight, though, Lydia has no decent excuse, other than that Cora and Erica’s recounting of their latest misadventures in continuing Stiles’s 181 Birch Street renovations is so entertaining that she fails to notice Boyd continually refilling her post-dinner coffee cup, and Boyd forgets that Lydia does not have the metabolizing ability of a werewolf.</p><p>At half past midnight, doing laundry had seemed like the perfect way to take advantage of her inability to fall asleep, but now, two hours later, crashing hard and more than ready to doze off, Lydia admits her hubris. She should have stayed home and read a book instead. She is contemplating the pros and cons of just curling up on top of this broken washer when the front door bell of the laundromat tinkles, nearly drowned out by the rattling trundle of the dryer.</p><p>Lydia looks at the door, and it feels like a bolt of electricity arcs through her. “Stiles?” she cries, jumping off the washer.</p><p>Stiles Stilinski, sporting a black eye and a busted lip, his clothing worn and muddied and bloodied like a horror movie extra, sways on the welcome mat. “Hi, Lyds,” he says and pitches towards the floor.</p><p>Lydia rushes forward and just catches him, grunting under his weight. She is not that strong, and he definitely is not as light as he looks. “What the hell, Stiles?” she asks. “Where were you? Why the fuck didn’t you tell any of us?”</p><p>“Potatoes,” he mumbles into her hair.</p><p>“You feel like a sack of them,” Lydia snarks.</p><p><em>Jordan</em>, she thinks, hard and loud, because that is a fun new discovery – development? – between the two of them: she can call for Jordan with her mind alone.</p><p>It takes a few minutes to manhandle a very not lucid Stiles onto a waiting chair, his head lolling back against the storefront glass. By the time Lydia is able to recover her phone and call Derek, Jordan is already parking his car on the street outside, climbing out in what appears to be pajamas. He looks worried as he approaches, and when he notices Stiles, he positively sprints.</p><p>“<em>What?</em>” Jordan demands incredulously as soon as he is inside the building.<br/>Lydia shakes her head. “He just showed up. Can you check –?”</p><p>Jordan is already kneeling before the other man, trying to get his attention and running through a standard palpation treatment. Stiles does not seem to realize it is no longer Lydia talking to him.</p><p>Derek picks up the phone with a grumble. “Lydia? Where are you?”</p><p>“Laundromat,” she says. “Stiles is back.”</p><p>Derek immediately hangs up.</p><p>Lydia’s dryer timer goes off, and she darts over to cut the noise and shovel her laundry into her hamper. By the time she comes back to Jordan and Stiles, she can see Derek running from down the street, red eyes reflecting the streetlights eerily.</p><p>“Lots of bruising,” Jordan tells Lydia, “and a couple of his ribs might be fractured or broken.”</p><p>Derek whips into the laundromat and stops short when he sees Stiles’s face. As he takes in more of Stiles’s state, his fangs slips out and his eyes erratically flash red.</p><p>“Derek,” Lydia snaps, and Derek rips his gaze away from Stiles. “We need to get him to ours,” she says. “I’ll call Danny.”</p><p>When Derek and Jordan pick him up, Stiles shouts in pain and fully passes out, which is not reassuring but at least makes it easier to transport him to the bakery. “Did he come here on foot?” Jordan wonders as they walk down the street and see no signs of a vehicle save Jordan’s. Derek growls at the thought, and no more questions are raised.</p><p>Danny and Melia are waiting at the back of the bakery by the time they get there. “Shit,” Danny breathes out when he sees Stiles, and even Melia winces.</p><p>Between the five of them, they get Stiles up the stairs and into Derek’s bed, where Lydia spreads a spare sheet to keep the blood stains contained. Melia takes Jordan with her to begin collecting and sterilizing water, leaving Derek and Lydia to stand watch over Danny as he begins cutting away Stiles’s clothes.</p><p>Stiles comes to, briefly, as Danny removes his layers of shirts. “No dinner first, Danny?” he croaks, and Danny snorts.</p><p>Stiles looks around until his eyes land on Lydia. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he could be apologizing for any number of things, but Lydia knows this is not the moment to extract the particulars from him.</p><p>Stiles finds Derek, then, and his wide smile looks gruesome with his split lip. “Hey. Derek Hale. Good to see you.”</p><p>“Stiles,” Derek rumbles, eyebrows harshly slanted. He is not actually angry, Lydia knows; he has just never been good at expressing things like worry, hurt, and care, and Stiles manages to bring out all three in him.</p><p>Stiles is not fooled, either; he laughs and then winces from the pain. “Good to see you,” he repeats as a mumble. “I think I like you, Derek – ow, fuck, Danny.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Danny says as he eases off one of Stiles’s sleeves. A particularly ghastly wound is revealed on his left bicep, which has Derek growling again and Lydia wincing. Lydia shifts closer to grab her alpha’s hand, squeezing reassuringly.</p><p>Danny frowns at the scabbed mess. “This is old,” he says. “How have you been cleaning it?”</p><p>“Sporadically,” Stiles answers and then raises his head to look at the wound in question. “Oh. That was Julia.”</p><p>“The witch?” Lydia asks, incredulous.</p><p>“You’re lucky it isn’t infected,” Danny says.</p><p>“Sure,” Stiles says weakly and then passes out again.</p><p>Melia and Jordan return with clean rags and a bowl of water. Danny frees Stiles from the rest of his clothes, and rage and sympathetic pain roil around inside Lydia. It looks as though Stiles has been used on and off as a punching bag since he left them four weeks ago. Unsightly bruises of different colors and sizes blossom starkly against Stiles’s pale skin, and the scrapes and scabs at various stages of healing are just as appalling.</p><p>It is not just the new wounds that make Lydia forget how to breathe; older scars, ranging from white to pink to angry red, also pucker and mottle his skin. Seeing them all for the first time, Lydia can hardly believe that she and Stiles are the same age.</p><p>Danny, however, breathes a sigh of relief once he can see everything. “I can fix these,” he says, gold sparks beginning to dance in his dark eyes.</p><p>He and Melia set to cleaning Stiles’s wounds. As the grime is cleared away to reveal the exact extent of the trauma, Derek begins to tremble, and Lydia leans her head against his arm. “He’ll be okay,” she murmurs to Derek. “He’s strong.” And he is – in spite of the pain and unconsciousness, Lydia does not sense Stiles’s life force faltering in the least.</p><p>It takes two changes of water before Danny gives a short nod of satisfaction. “I’m ready,” he says.</p><p>Melia and Jordan back off. Danny steps up to Stiles’s side, holding his hands palm-down over Stiles’s chest. “Mieczysław Stilinski,” Danny says, “Receive this gift of health and healing, from me to you.”</p><p>Danny’s hands begin to radiate a golden light, but instead of traveling up Danny’s arms, it spreads to cover Stiles. Danny chants softly, rocking back and forth in time with his words. The room suddenly become warmer, causing goosebumps to rise on Lydia’s flesh. When the light completely covers Stiles, Danny continues for another minute before opening his eyes and dropping his hands. The light shimmers and then drops, absorbing into Stiles’s body.</p><p>Lydia’s eyes widen. The bruises are gone, the cuts and scrapes reduced to scars. Stiles sighs, and it sounds like a long-held exhale of relief.</p><p>Danny stumbles but catches himself against the wall. “He’ll be okay,” Danny says, and the collective tension in the room dissipates.</p><p>Cleaning up is a quick process. Derek picks up Stiles in order to let Lydia pull off the bloodied sheet and then turn down the covers, and there is an extreme gentleness in the way Derek resettles Stiles on the mattress. He begins fussing with the sheets, trying to tuck Stiles in without being too rough, so Lydia herds everyone else out of the room.</p><p>“Thank you,” Lydia tells Danny when they are gathered in the living room, Jordan and the Mahealanis pulling their hats and coats on again.</p><p>“We all owe him,” Danny replies easily. “Let me know if he – or you and Derek – need anything at all. Okay?”</p><p>Lydia hugs Danny, and after exchanging nods with Melia, the Mahealanis leave the apartment.</p><p>A hand lands on her shoulder, and Lydia looks up at Jordan. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks.</p><p>Lydia turns and wraps her arms tightly around Jordan, pressing her face into his chest. He hugs her back, one hand coming up so his fingers can graze the base of her skull, and Lydia can feel his shiver with every inch of her being.</p><p>“Told you he’d come back,” Jordan eventually whispers.</p><p>Lydia pinches Jordan’s side before letting him go. Part of her does want Jordan to stay, but Lydia also knows that with Stiles healing and out of it, letting a non-pack member linger in their space would not sit well with Derek’s wolf. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Lydia says.</p><p>Jordan leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Sleep well,” he replies and sees himself out the door.</p><p>Lydia is left with a hamper of clean clothes and jitters from an adrenaline comedown, so she decides she might as well fold her laundry before trying to go to bed. The monotonous manual task helps calm her. By the time she has two stacks of folded clothing – one of her things and one of Derek’s – she is more than ready to sleep.</p><p>She brings Derek’s stack to his room. Derek has dragged one of the kitchen chairs to the bedside, where he hunches over and intently watches Stiles breathe. He looks up briefly when Lydia enters and puts the clothing on Derek’s dresser. “Thank you,” he says quietly.</p><p>Lydia takes note of the tension in Derek’s spine, of the deep bags beneath his eyes. He has taken Stiles’s disappearance harder than he lets on, and to have Stiles back, but so weary and beaten – Lydia has a sense that Derek still does not feel that much better. “We can close the bakery today,” Lydia says.</p><p>Derek glances at the clock on his nightstand and then at the floor, below which is his kitchen. “Yeah,” he agrees.</p><p>He returns to scrutinizing Stiles, so Lydia slips out of the door without another word.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Derek wants to be furious with Stiles. He wants to be livid, to yell at the other man for being so reckless and idiotically self-sacrificing, for leaving them in the dark, for leaving <em>Derek</em> in the dark, but Stiles’s recovery is slow.</p><p>Danny might have healed the open wounds and mended the broken bones, but Stiles is human, and his body still needs to recover at a devastatingly human pace. For half a week, Stiles is not awake for more than three hours at a given time, and Derek wants to roar in frustration with how <em>incremental</em> his progress is. Instead, Derek starts making soup and fills the apartment freezer with it. He pops out of the bakery every few hours to check that the glass of water at Stiles’s bedside is still full and to listen to Stiles breathe.</p><p>He is not the only one worried about Stiles. Everyday, at least three people will drop by the bakery and ask about Stiles. Sometimes, it is members of the pack, or someone from BHPD; just as often, it is a complete stranger to Derek, but they will still have such specific anecdotes of how they know Stiles. Stiles helped them jump their car. Stiles advised what drill bit, screws, and wood to buy for constructing a dog house. Stiles gave them a lift home from the grocery store, diagnosed the weird fungus that had been eating away at their favorite tree in the front yard, and recommended exactly what to get from Mahealani’s Apothecary to fix the issue.</p><p>Stiles has been everywhere in Beacon Hills, Derek realizes, spreading goodwill and sharing knowledge so much farther than Derek had ever known.</p><p>When Stiles finally has enough energy to stay awake for most of the day, it is such a relief that Derek forgets to be angry. The pack begins coming and going from the apartment as much as they are in and out of Boyd’s place, and before Derek knows it, Stiles is going out as much as they are coming to visit. It is not long before Stiles has woven himself into their daily lives so completely that it seems unfathomable that there was a period of time when he was not here.</p><p>Stiles takes over cooking for nightly pack dinners at Boyd’s. Stiles dives into Cora’s landscaping project at 13 Cuttlebuck Lane with such enthusiasm that the vegetable garden Cora envisioned took half as much time to create and plant as she had estimated, and Derek starts finding patches of soil in every imaginable crevice of the apartment. Erica and Cora walk Stiles through the renovations they completed at 181 Birch Street during his absence and recovery, and Stiles apparently ugly cries about it for 20 minutes before immediately whipping up a batch of cookies as a thank you. Stiles starts honest repairs on his Jeep, finally “doing something better for baby than duck tape and a prayer,” and Derek tries to focus on the fact that Stiles can comfortably do work again, rather than the implication behind Stiles putting his Jeep in the best condition for him to be able to leave town.</p><p>They all have noticed the Jeep repairs, really, and while everyone seems to be reading into it in the same way as Derek, no one brings it up with Stiles. It is this precariousness that also keeps any of them from asking more questions about his first disappearance – why he did not tell any of them, why he felt the need to go alone, why he left his phone, or even just the basics of what <em>happened</em> to him.</p><p>And there is another thing that Derek does not bring up with Stiles: even after Stiles has fully recovered, and even though his would-be assassin is dead, he still returns to the apartment above the bakery at night to sleep. Stiles is a night owl, and Derek has to rise early, so Derek usually falls asleep alone. But every morning, when Derek’s alarm goes off, he wakes to discover that Stiles is beside him, face half-smashed into his pillow with his mouth partially open. Sometimes, Stiles has an arm thrown around Derek’s waist. It is those mornings that scare Derek the most, because what if, one morning, Derek wakes up and Stiles is not there?</p><p>Things shift in early October, on one of those rare nights when they turn in at the same time. Derek hardly breathes as they both go through their nightly routine, bumping into each other in the bathroom and crossing paths from the kitchen to the bedroom. There is a fragility in the air that Derek thinks only he feels, because Stiles is just being <em>Stiles</em> – gesticulating as he speaks, talking incomprehensibly around his toothbrush, bumping into door frames in his exhaustion.</p><p>Somehow, Stiles ends up in bed before Derek does. Derek shuts off the hall light, and when he turns into his own room, he finds himself stopping at the threshold. The cloudy night lets little of the moon shine into the bedroom, but Derek’s eyes are sharp enough to make out Stiles’s figure beneath the sheets. Stiles is not on his stomach yet, but his eyes are closed, so Derek jumps when Stiles says, “C’mere, you.”</p><p>Derek does just that, walking to the far side of the mattress and climbing in. Stiles shivers a bit when Derek lifts the sheets, letting in cold air, but there is a smile sitting comfortably on his face when Derek settles in. “Dinner was fun,” Stiles tells him.</p><p>Derek snorts. Erica and Isaac had spent the better part of it bickering like siblings, and when Parrish – an unusual but not unwelcome guest that night – tried to mediate, both of them instantly turned on him, giving him a ribbing that left him red-faced and crying tears of laughter.</p><p>Stiles wriggles, and Derek swears the other man ends up closer than he had been. “Derek,” Stiles says, “Can I ask you something?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“How mad would you be if Cora and I named our first pumpkin after you?”</p><p>“You are <em>not</em> naming a pumpkin after me.”</p><p>Stiles cackles, and the sound sends warmth and fear through Derek at the same time. He needs this – no, he <em>wants</em> this, all the time, wants Stiles warming his bed as he laughs at the not-funny things Derek says, and Derek is terrified of losing this.</p><p>It is this weird, double-edged feeling that prompts Derek to lean forward and press a kiss to Stiles’s forehead. Stiles’s laugh cuts off, even as his scent shifts to something bright and inviting.</p><p>“What was that?” Stiles asks cautiously. His eyes, squinting, dart around Derek’s face, and Derek is glad it is too dark for Stiles to really see his expression. Derek does not know what that was – a lapse of judgement, a moment when he revealed too much of his hand, the thing that just felt the most right to do – but it appears that a verbal response does not matter.</p><p>With a hand holding Derek’s jaw, Stiles bridges the space between them and kisses him.</p><p>Stiles’s lips are soft, and the sharp mint of his toothpaste makes Derek’s nose tingle. Derek kisses him back slowly at first. He cannot remember the last time he has kissed someone, and it almost feels as though he is reliving his first kiss – it is hesitation, exploration, curiosity. He can hear the rasp of his stubble against Stiles’s chin, and his heart jumps at Stiles’s sharp inhale when Derek’s hand gently squeezes his side.</p><p>When they pull apart, Stiles does not move away from being all up in Derek’s space, their noses bumping lightly. “Hey,” he says softly. “You’re shivering – it’s okay. It’s okay, yeah?”</p><p>Derek <em>is</em> trembling. Overwhelmed, he reaches out and drags Stiles as close as possible, his arms locked around Stiles’s middle like a vice. Derek wedges his face between the pillow and Stiles’s neck, pressing his nose against the other man’s skin. “It’s okay,” Stiles murmurs, a hand running up and down Derek’s back, and Derek inhales deeply.</p><p>As always, Stiles smells like coffee and gunmetal, but from this close, Derek can smell, for the first time, what is underneath: a scent that is distinctly Stiles, something earthy and rich, like loam in the spring. Like something meant to nurture, so long as it, too, is nurtured by that which is around it.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>It is two days later, on a Wednesday afternoon, that Derek leaves the bakery in Isaac’s care to walk to 181 Birch Street. Even with the sun out, the day feels chilly, an autumn wind nipping at Derek’s exposed face and arms, but with the rich scents of fall rising through the air for the first time in the seven years Derek has been in Beacon Hills, Derek would hate to have made this trip in the confines of the Camaro.</p><p>When he arrives, Stiles is elbow-deep in the hood of the Jeep, grease smeared up his arms and streaked across his forehead. “Hey,” Stiles says when he notices Derek. “I’ll wrap up in a minute – you can go in, if you want.”</p><p>It is only the second time Derek has been inside 181 Birch Street. Derek is impressed by what Erica and his sister have done. Gone are the construction equipment, the holes in the walls, the exposed wires, the bare light bulbs; while the house is still small and compact, it feels like a place where it would be comfortable to live. The two women even spared a thought or two for interior design. There is a carpet in the living room that was not there before, and Derek swears the couch and barstools are reupholstered pieces from Boyd’s house.</p><p>The slam of the front door announces Stiles entrance. “You can sit down, you know,” he says, amused, as he grabs a glass of water.</p><p>Derek rolls his eyes but slides onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island.</p><p>“Have you eaten yet?” Stiles asks.</p><p>“No,” Derek answers, watching Stiles’s throat bob as he drains the glass.</p><p>Stiles wipes his mouth and nods. “Let me shower, and then I can make us lunch?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>Stiles disappears into what must be the bedroom, and Derek continues to look around. The surfaces are clearer than he would expect for Stiles’s house. Sure, his laptop is sitting on top of a couple legal pads on one end of the kitchen counter, but that is nothing compared to the mountains of research Derek has witnessed before.</p><p>Derek’s gaze drifts to the front windows and lands on the Jeep. Just this morning, Lydia and Isaac had been talking about the car, chatting in circles about Stiles’s latest repairs until Lydia finally snapped. “If he starts looking antsy,” she said, “I’ll rip out the engine block with my bare hands.”</p><p>Derek would help her, he thinks, but he also knows that would not be addressing the real issue. If Stiles wanted to leave, he would find a way, and that is the thing that haunts Derek’s thoughts whenever it is too quiet around him.</p><p>When Stiles comes back, his wet hair is spiked in all different directions and there is still a smudge of grease near his right temple. “What brings you here?” Stiles asks, going for another glass of water and standing opposite Derek. “I know Whittemore doesn’t close for another three hours.”</p><p>“Are you fixing the Jeep because you’re leaving soon?” Derek blurts.</p><p>Stiles stares at the glass in his hands, unmoving, and Derek winces. “Sorry,” Derek says, closing his eyes. “That’s – that’s not our business –”</p><p>“No,” Stiles says, the word small.</p><p>Derek opens his eyes. “I haven’t told anyone,” Stiles says slowly, “but … I haven’t been able to do research, since I’ve come back.”</p><p>Derek involuntarily flicks a glance at the laptop and legal pads, and Stiles shakes his head. “No,” he repeats. “I’ve lost my motivation. I’ve been trying to get it back, but.”</p><p>Stiles looks down and starts tracing the wood grains of the kitchen island with a fingertip. “It’s hard,” he admits, “when I wake in the morning, and all I want is to see you and Lydia and Danny and Melia. When all I want to do is help Cora with her gardening, and to kick Erica and Isaac out of the kitchen so I can make a proper dinner for everyone.”</p><p>Stiles is facing him, but his gaze is a hundred miles away, scrutinizing something that Derek cannot see. “This hasn’t happened before,” he says, “but I think I can fix it. I know I can. I <em>have</em> to.”</p><p>There is still a dissatisfaction to his tone and his scent. It finally dawns on Derek that Stiles does not want to leave Beacon Hills, but for some reason he feels like he needs to.</p><p>Derek shifts forward in his seat. “You know, you can stay,” he ventures.</p><p>Stiles refocuses on him, a frown tightening his lips. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“You can stay. You have this place, you’re welcome at the apartment. There’s still plenty of room at Boyd’s.”</p><p>Stiles wets his lips, eyes darting around the room. “I – I know.”</p><p>“You don’t have to leave.” Derek wrinkles his nose. <em>Wolves have no secrets</em>, he reminds himself, and forces out the truth that he is really trying to convey. “I don’t want you to leave,” he amends.</p><p>Stiles makes a frustrated noise. “I don’t <em>want</em> to leave, either. But it feels like I’m not doing as much as I could if – I’m not doing enough.”</p><p>This feels like familiar territory, but this time around, Derek knows what he is saying, and he knows that he is right. He makes his voice firm as he says, “You can’t help others if you’ve run yourself into the ground.”</p><p>Stiles blinks rapidly at the ceiling. Derek pushes back from the counter, ignoring the harsh scrape of the metal barstool on the floor, and comes around the island to approach Stiles. “Stay,” he urges, his voice breaking on the end of the word.</p><p>Stiles finally looks directly at him. Unshed tears glimmer in his whiskey-brown eyes. “Say that again,” he says, voice pitched low.</p><p>“Stay with me, Stiles,” Derek repeats. “Stay with <em>us</em>. Let us take care of you.”</p><p>Derek can see the exact moment Stiles’s resolve crumbles: his shoulders drop, a tear slips down his cheek, and the breath leaves his body in a large, rattling sigh.</p><p>In the next moment, Stiles throws himself at Derek.</p><p>Their teeth clack, and there is something erratic and untamed in the way that Stiles’s hands grab at Derek’s body. Stiles bites at Derek’s lip, and Derek is about to growl when Stiles’s soft lips suck away the pain, only to bite again. “Derek,” Stiles says, with a tinge of crazed desperation, and Derek needs him to calm down.</p><p>He grabs Stiles by the hips and manhandles him until Stiles is pinned between Derek’s hips and the island. “Stupid strong werewolf,” Stiles snips, trying to push away, and Derek is having none of that.</p><p>He threads his fingers through Stiles’s wet hair and pulls Stiles’s head back, eliciting a groan from Stiles and exposing the long line of his throat. Leaning forward, Derek mouths from Stiles’s collar bone up to the hinge of his jaw, taking his time, feeling for the tremors that wrack Stiles’s body. When Stiles begins to relax, feeling less uptight, Derek lets go of his hair and runs his hands up and down Stiles’s back, pressing the pads of his thumbs into the knotted muscles of Stiles’s shoulder blades until Stiles is truly loose.</p><p>“Derek,” Stiles breathes out.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“<em>Derek</em>.”</p><p>Stiles grabs his jaw with both hands, forcing Derek to look at him. He is steady now, but there is a new hunger in Stiles’s face, one that matches the spike of something tantalizingly bitter in his scent and the soft tug at the bottom of Derek’s gut.</p><p>When they kiss again, it is deliberate and measured but full of heat. This time, when Stiles pushes at Derek’s hips, Derek gives way. “Bedroom?” Stiles asks quietly against Derek’s lips, and Derek nods.</p><p>In the bedroom, they strip slowly, and Derek relishes in the warmth of skin to skin contact. The scars on Stiles’s body are no easier to see in daylight, and Derek finds himself tracing them with fingertip and tongue. A set of four jagged, parallel white lines across Stiles’s ribcage line up perfectly with Derek’s fingers, and Derek shudders. He is surprised when Stiles laughs. “That werewolf was a bigger asshole than you ever were,” Stiles tells him, and Derek shoves him onto the mattress.</p><p>Stiles pulls Derek down and is quick to roll so that he is on top, his solid thighs straddling Derek’s waist. He walks his fingertips up Derek’s sides in unison, and Derek squirms with the sensation, causing Stiles to smirk. He bends over and presses a kiss to Derek’s throat. “I’m a bit out of practice,” Stiles murmurs, twisting around to suck at Derek’s ear. The wet sound smacks sharply in Derek’s ear. “Tell me what you want. <em>Please</em>.”</p><p>Suddenly, it is like Derek has never had a single thought in his entire life. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully, and even he can hear the confusion in his voice.</p><p>Stiles pauses, pulling back enough to regard Derek. “What?”</p><p>Then it hits Derek. “No one’s ever asked me that,” he says.</p><p>Stiles double takes. “What the <em>fuck?</em>” he says, then shakes his head violently. “Fuck, okay. Tell me what feels good,” he amends, his expression shifting into one of determination as he ducks down again.</p><p>He bites a bruising kiss into Derek’s neck, and Derek hisses at the pain that somehow feels good. “Fuck,” he says, pushing himself up to try and flip their positions.</p><p>Stiles immediately shoves him back down with a hand to his chest. “No,” he orders, eyes sharp and glittering in a way that shoots heat through Derek’s veins. “Stay there, and tell me what feels good, because I’m figuring out how to make you fall apart.”</p><p>“Stiles –”</p><p>“Do you trust me?”</p><p>Derek looks up. Backlit by the afternoon sun that slips between the slats of the blinds, Stiles is a vision, a bow stretched taut and ready to fire. Blunt fingernails ghost up his abdomen, and Derek shivers, his hands fisting in the bedsheets.</p><p>“I trust you,” Derek says hoarsely.</p><p>“Good,” Stiles replies. He reaches out, pushing a hand through Derek’s hair, and smirks. “I’m gonna have you shaking, <em>babe</em>.”</p><p>The sudden change in tone startles a genuine laugh out of Derek. “Are you?”</p><p>“Bet on it.”</p><p>Stiles, of course, is right.</p><p>He takes his sweet time, but Stiles does get Derek shaking and swearing and arching off the mattress, and Derek did not know that sex could be like this. He is sweating and gasping, clutching desperately at the sheets and at Stiles, and the only thing keeping him tied to the moment is Stiles’s voice, low and murmuring ceaselessly whenever his mouth is not otherwise occupied. When Derek finally orgasms, Stiles kisses his shoulder and holds him through the aftershocks, the hands that were just teasing and agitating Derek now soothing against Derek’s damp skin. It takes a while for Derek to come down, and by the time he feels lucid again, Stiles has already finished himself off and is cleaning up both of them with a damp towel.</p><p>Stiles flings the towel through the open bathroom door and pushes Derek around until they can both get under the covers. “Nap time,” Stiles says cheerily, pulling the sheets right over their heads and draping himself half on top of Derek.</p><p>Derek puts his arms around Stiles, resting one hand at the small of his back and the other at the nape of his neck. Leeching the tense pain away from Stiles’s neck and shoulders is automatic by now, and Stiles sighs contentedly against Derek’s chest.</p><p>Derek blinks slowly. He feels spent. “Fuck,” he mumbles, and Stiles laughs.</p><p>“Another time,” Stiles quips. “I’m not going anywhere soon.”</p><p>Derek squeezes him and drops a kiss on Stiles’s temple, right next to the smudge of car grease. He listens to the sound of Stiles’s heartbeat slow down, and Stiles is just about to drift off when he mumbles, “I like you, Derek Hale.”</p><p>A smile curls Derek’s lips. “You’ve told me.”</p><p>Stiles lazily smacks his shoulder, and Derek laughs. “I like you, too,” he confesses and closes his eyes.</p><p>Cozy beneath the sun-warmed sheets, breathing in unison, they drift to sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all, so much, for the love and support throughout this work – I love, love hearing what resonated and what predictions you had. You give this creator so much joy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>X. (Epilogue)</b>
</p><p>
  <em>Four and a half years later …</em>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ L +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Lydia’s knife drops easily through Boyd’s birthday cake, and she looks up to the end of the dining room table to smile at her alpha. “Feels like a good one,” she tells him, and the ghost of a smile passes over Derek’s face.</p><p>“Twenty-fucking-eight, babe,” Erica tells Boyd. “How does it feel to be old as <em>shit?</em>”</p><p>Boyd raises his eyebrows when Erica bops his nose with her finger. “You’ll be my age in a month,” he reminds her. He smiles at Lydia when she passes him the first slice of cake, effortlessly batting away Erica’s hand when she tries to swipe some of his icing.</p><p>“If anyone’s old as shit, it’s Derek,” Isaac pipes up.</p><p>“Thirty-two isn’t old as shit,” Derek counters.</p><p>“Thirty-three in December,” Lydia sing-songs.</p><p>“Isn’t it weird to think,” Cora says, “if we had grown up in the same town, we could have gone to school together and all been in the same grade?”</p><p>Lydia gives the next plate to Isaac, who passes it down the table. Cora’s question is fair, but over the years, Lydia has trained herself to stop considering hypotheticals when it comes to her own past and present. By some miracle, she has found herself in a time and place where she wakes up in the morning and can be reasonably sure that she will encounter happiness at least once during the day the lies in wait for her. It is an assurance she does not take for granted – that no one in this pack takes for granted, she knows.</p><p>“Do you think we would have been friends?” Erica wonders.</p><p>“I’d hope so,” Isaac says with a frown.</p><p>Derek pushes himself back from the table. “Anyone want coffee?” he asks and ambles to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.</p><p>Finished serving cake, Lydia takes her seat again with her own generous slice. She is about to tuck in when her phone vibrates in the pocket of her skirt, and she pulls it out to see a text from Jordan. <em>Just got off shift. See you later</em>.</p><p>Lydia smiles, tucks her phone away, and looks around at her pack.</p><p>So much has changed for them, in the last four and a half years. It is hard to tell if there was a specific turning point – maybe it was three years ago, when Boyd proposed to Erica and they got married a month later. Maybe it was two and a half, when Erica and Cora opened a butcher’s shop down the block from Whittemore Bakery. Maybe it was two, when Lydia relinquished her daily bakery responsibilities to Isaac, finally got her G.E.D., and breezed through online undergraduate school in fifteen short months. Or maybe it was closer to five years ago, when the Nemeton was healed and Beacon Hills became a real sanctuary for the supernatural. Since that nightmarish summer, the Beacon Hills population has doubled in size. Houses once fallen to disrepair have been restored and filled with new families and newcomers; people finally feel safe enough to put down roots. This pack has put down roots, and they have begun to grow something meant to last.</p><p>At the dining room table, conversation flows easily. Erica and Boyd keep stealing glances, and Lydia would needle them about it if she did not already have the feeling that whatever secret they are excited about will come out soon.</p><p>Sure enough, as soon as Derek has returned with a stack of mugs and a fresh pot of coffee, Boyd clears his throat. “Thank you, all, for the birthday party,” he starts off.</p><p>“Half of us live here,” Cora interjects.</p><p>“Not the point,” Boyd shoots back smoothly. “Anyway. There’s something that Erica and I want to say.”</p><p>He offers his hand to his wife, who takes it with a squeeze. “We’re having a baby,” Erica says, beaming.</p><p>Lydia’s <em>Congratulations</em> is cut off by an ear-splitting crash as Derek drops of all his mugs at once. The coffee, thankfully, is already sitting on the table. “That’s why you smell different,” Derek blurts, eyes wide.</p><p>The table breaks into laughter as Derek swoops down to squeeze Boyd and Erica into a bruising hug. “A baby,” Derek repeats in awe, eyes crinkling as he smiles uncontrollably and squeezes his betas’ necks. Tears spring in Lydia’s eyes as she cracks up. It is a relief to see Derek happy; it seems like weeks since she has last seen him crack even the smallest of smiles.</p><p>When the moment of delirious happiness settles, Derek apologetically grabs a broom to clean up the mess of shattered ceramic. Isaac offers to move into Cora’s bedroom to give the baby a designated room – as if he did not already spend more time in her room than his – and Cora and Erica begin to animatedly discuss interior design and renovation plans. Lydia gets up to give Boyd a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You’re going to be a dad,” she says, and his dark eyes twinkle up at her.</p><p>“I’m ready,” he replies, and Lydia believes him with her entire heart.</p><p>Later, when Isaac and Cora are doing the dishes and Erica disappears to take a shower, Lydia finds Boyd and Derek sitting on the back porch. This late in May, Cora’s garden is full to bursting with colorful flowers, and the air is rich with their scent even to Lydia’s essentially human nose. Boyd and Derek are sharing the loveseat, so Lydia settles into the wicker rocking chair, curling her legs up underneath her.</p><p>“Do you know when she’s due?” Derek is asking.</p><p>“Should be some time in November,” Boyd replies. “We’ll get a more exact idea once she’s in third trimester.”</p><p>“Hopefully it’s near Thanksgiving,” Lydia says. “I want to be here when the baby is born.”</p><p>Boyd grins. “That’d be perfect. Also – Jordan told me you finalized what track you’re doing?”</p><p>Lydia nods. “Biostatistics MA/PhD. It’s a three year program.” She glances at Derek, who stares at his hands with his brow pinched. “Berkeley isn’t that far,” she says, trying to reassure herself as much as Derek.</p><p>Her alpha exhales through his nose. “I know,” he says, looking up at her. There is a determined steadiness in his hazel eyes. “We’ll be okay.”</p><p>Lydia’s graduate program is not the first time a pack member has left Beacon Hills for an extended period of time, but it <em>is</em> the first time in nearly twelve years that Lydia has left town. Jordan, Isaac, and even Danny all offered to go with Lydia, but they all have commitments and responsibilities here that are too important for Lydia to justify uprooting them to the Bay Area, even for a temporary stay. Besides, a part of her wants to do this on her own. As much as she chose biostatistics to bring back something useful to the research she and Danny are doing, she chose an on-campus, multiyear program to prove something for herself. And she will not be completely alone – there are plenty of friend-of-a-friend connections for her in Berkeley and other nearby cities. Lydia is ready for the challenge.</p><p>She turns to Boyd. “Have you discussed names yet?”</p><p>Boyd chuckles. “Erica made us coin flip. I get the first name, she chooses the middle name.”</p><p>Derek snorts, and Lydia says, “That’s definitely not how she wanted that to go.”</p><p>Silence falls, and they all turn to watch the preserve. The woods used to be a vaguely threatening presence, but as Lydia watches and listens now, all she picks up on are signs of life.</p><p>Her phone buzzes. It is another text from Jordan – this time, a photo of his coffee table, on which there is a bottle of wine, lit candles, and the latest drugstore murder mystery novel they have been reading together.</p><p>“I should head out,” Lydia says. She gets up and hugs her pack members. “Happy birthday, Boyd. I’ll see you in the morning, Derek.”</p><p>Derek squeezes her arm in farewell as Boyd says, “Thanks. Travel safely.”</p><p>Walking out to the Camaro, Lydia tips her head back to look at the stars and breathe in deeply. <em>Today was a good day</em>, she thinks. A smile curls her lips, and she hums a nonsense melody the entire drive to Jordan’s.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ D +</b>
</p><hr/><p>“Add the dry ingredients next,” Derek says. Isaac goes to dump the entire bowl at once into the stand mixer, and Derek lunges forward. “No –”</p><p>Too late. Flour spits back out of the mixer, coating the fronts of the two men and causing Isaac to sneeze. Derek glares up at Isaac. He will never understand why cake is so difficult for someone who can manage breads, doughnuts, and even pastries with ease.</p><p>When he is done sneezing, Isaac smiles sheepishly. “Sorry.”</p><p>Derek rolls his eyes, backing down. “Next time, add it in slowly. So you don’t end up … like that.”</p><p>“I’ll clean up later.”</p><p>“Yes, you will.”</p><p>Derek washes his hands and does his best to get the flour off of his face. He knows he is lucky to have Isaac in the bakery; the beta takes care of the tasks that Derek does not like, particularly anything that has to deal with customers, and in spite of Isaac’s refusal to understand the finer points of cakes, they do work well together. Isaac is comfortable with working in silence, and after almost five years of experience, they have learned to anticipate each other’s needs.</p><p>Isaac’s patience and attention to detail has also allowed the bakery to expand into pastries, which Derek had never really got a good handle on. Their business has grown so much in the last couple years that Lydia – still managing the bakery’s finances – is now working to convince Derek to install a second double-oven and hire a baking apprentice.</p><p>She is right, Derek knows. But he wants to hold on to this thing of just him and Isaac for a little while longer.</p><p>“I don’t want this to mix for too long, right?” Isaac asks.</p><p>“Yeah. Stop when the dry ingredients are just incorporated, or else you’ll knock out too much air.”</p><p>Isaac shuts off the stand mixer, and the kitchen suddenly becomes half as loud. Derek is able to hear the bell above the front door tinkle when someone enters, and then an achingly familiar voice calls, “Honey, I’m <em>home!</em>”</p><p>Isaac breaks into a smile, and Derek sprints out of the kitchen.</p><p>He does not think before vaulting over the counter and wrapping himself around Stiles, whose clear laughter rings directly in Derek’s ear. “Hi, boo,” Stiles says, his fingers digging into Derek’s back, and the knot that has been building in Derek’s chest for nearly a month – holy <em>shit</em> – finally loosens.</p><p>“Two calls in four weeks is <em>not</em> enough,” Derek scolds, pressing his nose to Stiles’s neck and breathing deeply.</p><p>Stiles scratches Derek’s scalp. Unfair, that Stiles has learned Derek’s weaknesses. “It was only three and a half,” he corrects lightly, and Derek squeezes him until he yelps.</p><p>Only then does Derek let Stiles step back. There is now flour all over Stiles’s front, too, but he does not seem to care. “Besides,” Stiles says, “If I called <em>too</em> much, I would have ruined the surprise.”</p><p>He jerks his head behind him, and Derek finally notices the two people standing just inside the bakery’s threshold. Derek recognizes them from photos and video calls over the years. “Scott and Allison,” he says, and the couple beams in unison.</p><p>“Stiles never calls enough when he’s working,” Allison says by way of introduction, holding out a hand for Derek to shake.</p><p>“Hey,” Stiles protests.</p><p>Scott is less reserved, hugging Derek like they have known each other their entire lives. Like Stiles, he does not seem to care that he gets flour on his clothes. “So good to finally meet you, man,” Scott says warmly.</p><p>When Derek glances at Stiles, Stiles is smiling fondly at the three of them. “Coffee?” Derek asks.</p><p>“Yes, please,” Allison says.</p><p>Stiles does this, every now and then, detouring in the middle of a trip to bring people important to him back to Beacon Hills. The first time it happened was three years ago, when Stiles showed up with two black eyes, an arm in a sling, and a sandy-haired man who scrutinized Derek with a familiar calculating look. “So you’re the person who finally convinced my son that taking a break is good for him,” he said, and Derek found his cheeks heating.</p><p>“It wasn’t just me,” he replied, but he never did convince John Stilinski of that.</p><p>Derek and the rest of their pack also met Melissa McCall, Heather from preschool, Ken and Noshiko Yukimura, Chris Argent, and Kira Yukimura this way. They have fun with it, especially because each visitor is a new opportunity to dig up stories from different phases of Stiles’s life, but Derek is mostly relieved that each visit means Stiles returns to them happy and mostly whole.</p><p>It was not always easy, to let Stiles go. For the first six months after deciding to stay in Beacon Hills, Stiles did not talk of leaving or continuing the work he had been doing before he came into their lives. Derek naively let himself believe that the silence meant Stiles was done, so he was blindsided when Stiles announced over pack dinner – a celebration of Stiles’s twenty-fifth birthday, in fact – that there was a case in Wyoming that he wanted to check out. “No,” Derek immediately said, which led to their first major argument since they stopped hating each other.</p><p>Stiles let it go on for a week before he simply up and left in the middle of the night.</p><p>When he returned two weeks later, Derek was still too furious to speak. “I told you I would come back,” Stiles insisted, sitting outside of Derek’s bedroom door until Lydia convinced him to go to his place.</p><p>When Derek finally found his words again and headed to 181 Birch Street, Stiles was already ready and waiting for him on the front step. “I know you hate it, but I also know that <em>you</em> know,” Stiles said, “that I can’t stay put. I can help people, Derek. I need to travel.”</p><p>“You left in the middle of an argument,” Derek gritted out.</p><p>“Which was a dick move. I know. I’m sorry. But I promise I will always come back. Okay? I promise.”</p><p>It was the genuine concern in Stiles’s eyes that made Derek back down. “Okay,” Derek agreed, nodding slowly. “We can work through this.”</p><p>And they have. Now, Derek only becomes reserved and worried during Stiles’s longer trips, like this one.</p><p>When Derek returns with three mugs of coffee and a water for himself, Stiles is sitting opposite of Allison and Scott at one of the four-tops, his cheeks flushed a mortified, bright red. “I hate you both <em>so much</em>,” he grouses. He makes grabby hands at Derek and immediately snuggles up to Derek. “They’re being mean,” he pouts, and Derek snorts.</p><p>Underneath the playful tone, however, Derek can tell that Stiles is tired. He wonders for how many hours straight Stiles drove to get here. His original destination had been Maine, and Derek is pretty sure Allison and Scott are still living in Boston. “How was your case?” Derek asks.</p><p>“Typical Code-less hunter who thought it would be entertaining to steal and auction off the pelt of a selkie child,” Stiles says. “Took a while to track down and recover the pelt, but after that, the parents were more than happy to take care of the hunter.”</p><p>He stifles a yawn, and Derek decides Stiles could use a break. He turns to the two across from him and asks, “How long are you in town for?”</p><p>“About a week,” Allison says with a shrug.</p><p>“Stiles is letting us crash at his place,” Scott adds.</p><p>Derek finds that they are easy to talk to and, once Stiles passes out on Derek’s shoulder, more than willing to share endless stories from growing up with Stiles. The anecdotes range from silly to sweet to embarrassing, and before Derek knows it, hours have flown by and Isaac is beginning to close up the bakery.</p><p>Derek shakes Stiles awake. “Drink your coffee,” he says as Stiles blinks sluggishly. “Lydia and Boyd are cooking tonight. You don’t want to miss it.”</p><p>Much later, after dinner and after showing Allison and Scott to 181 Birch Street, Derek practically has to carry a boneless Stiles up the stairs to the apartment. “Can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away that Erica was pregnant,” Stiles groans, betrayed.</p><p>“It’s not my news to share.”</p><p>“Can’t believe they told everyone without me.”</p><p>“They wanted to wait for you,” Derek points out. “But Erica was going to start showing, and we didn’t know when you’d be back.”</p><p>“Ugh. You’re annoying when you’re right.”</p><p>Derek snorts. “Come on. Shower time. You stink.”</p><p>“<em>You</em> stink.”</p><p>They are in the shower, Derek’s fingers massaging shampoo into Stiles’s scalp, when Stiles’s eyes suddenly sharpen. “Hey,” he says.</p><p>Derek raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”</p><p>Stiles drags his finger in a small circle through Derek’s chest hair, causing it to stand on end. “I missed you,” he says quietly.</p><p>Derek ducks his head to kiss a fresh cut on Stiles’s shoulder. “Missed you, too,” he murmurs against wet skin. He then adds, “Isaac is opening the bakery tomorrow.”</p><p>A wide grin splits Stiles’s face. “We get to sleep in?” he asks. Derek nips his collarbone and chuckles when Stiles inhales sharply. “Or we could do that,” Stiles breathes out.</p><p>“Tomorrow,” Derek says firmly. “You need to sleep.”</p><p>After they dry off and change into sleepwear, Stiles hits the mattress and immediately begins to snore. Derek takes his time settling in, burying his face into Stiles’s armpit. He likes it when they go to bed right after showering; it is much easier to smell the loam beneath the coffee and gunmetal clinging to Stiles’s skin. “I love you,” Derek murmurs, and he falls asleep to the reassuring pulse of Stiles’s heartbeat.</p><hr/><p>
  <b>+ S +</b>
</p><hr/><p>Stiles is mid-conversation with Boyd and Jordan when a bottle of sunscreen lotion smacks him in the chest. “Ow!” Stiles protests, rubbing a spot above his right pec. That might actually leave a bruise.</p><p>“You forgot, didn’t you?” Lydia says accusingly. “Your nose is already burning.”</p><p>Which, yeah, he did forget. He begrudgingly picks up the bottle that Lydia launched at him and begins oiling up. Boyd and Jordan are laughing at him, and he glares. “Like you two would argue with Lydia,” he snaps without real heat, and Jordan raises his hands in surrender.</p><p>The sun is unforgiving on this cloudless afternoon in May, but Stiles is happy to soak up its warmth. They are in the park with what seems like half of the Beacon Hills population, which actually is not too surprising. It is the third annual Park Festival, an event meant to jointly celebrate the anniversary of both the park’s opening and the Zhang-Aguilar extended family claiming Beacon Hills as part of their faerie protectorate, and <em>no one</em> wants to miss out on a festival thrown by faeries. Formally, the park is named after some prior mayor of Beacon Hills, but everyone just refers to it as New Park or Danny’s Park, since Danny used his horticulture talents – you can make a witch a magus, apparently, but you cannot take away his horticulture – to bring the park to life.</p><p>“How was your chat?” Stiles asks, handing the sunscreen back to Lydia when he is done. Lydia arrived later than the rest of them because she had a scheduled phone call with one of her future mentors at UC Berkeley.</p><p>“Good,” she replies. “I’m looking forward to working in her lab. I’m also <em>starving</em>.” She grabs Stiles’s wrist and tugs. “Come get food with me.”</p><p>Stiles follows her to the line of tables set up with food and drinks from local businesses and vendors. “You have to help me,” Lydia says in an undertone as she beelines for Cora and Erica’s table.</p><p>“What’s up?”</p><p>“We can’t let Erica choose <em>Boyd</em> as her baby’s middle name.”</p><p>Stiles laughs. “Something Boyd Boyd? She must be joking.”</p><p>“That’s what I thought, but she’s been bringing it up for a week, now. I think Isaac is encouraging her.”</p><p>“You want us to deal with it right now?” Stiles asks as they get closer.</p><p>“No. But probably tonight.”</p><p>Lydia smiles at Cora and Erica when they pull up. Behind free samples of beef tartar and spicy sausage, the two women have set up a modified version of their in-store sandwich bar. “How’s it going here?” Lydia asks.</p><p>“People love us,” Erica boasts.</p><p>“Give us two of the best you got,” Stiles says.</p><p>Cora begins assembling two pulled pork sandwiches with the works. “Scott and Allison just came by,” she informs Stiles.</p><p>Stiles grins and looks around until he spots his childhood friends at a table with samples of faerie wine. Allison will get absolutely smashed on that stuff. “I hope you charged them double,” Stiles jokes.</p><p>Cora smiles toothily at him. “Theirs were on the house. <em>You’re</em> getting charged double to make up for it.”</p><p>“You’re paying,” Lydia immediately says, voice muffled by the sample she has in her mouth.</p><p>Stiles pretends to pout, but he does pay the double amount. He also leaves a 100 percent tip, because he loves Cora and Erica and he can do shit like that.</p><p>He and Lydia manage to find an unoccupied bench, where they sit down to eat their lunch. “I hope you love Berkeley,” he tells her. “I really liked it.”</p><p>Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you graduate in three years?”</p><p>“Only because I wanted to move on to the next thing,” Stiles explains. “Not because I didn’t like Berkeley.”</p><p>Lydia studies him. “You really didn’t know how to slow down, did you?” she says.</p><p>Her observations are always incisive. “Even now, I don’t think I really do,” Stiles admits. “I have to stop and ask myself what you or Derek would say. Sometimes –” he hesitates. “Sometimes, I think if I hadn’t come here and met you, I’d already be dead.”</p><p>Lydia frowns. “Stiles.”</p><p>“The rate I used to be going at?” Stiles pushes on. “I think I would’ve died by twenty-six. <em>Maybe</em> twenty-seven.”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s helpful to think like that.”</p><p>There is a serious note to her voice that makes Stiles pause. “Maybe not.”</p><p>Lydia sets her lunch down. “I used to wonder what would have happened if Jackson were never bitten. Then maybe I never would have discovered that I was a banshee. Maybe I would still care about my mother. Maybe Jackson and I would have gotten married and had kids.”</p><p>Stiles can count on one hand the number of times he has heard Lydia talk about Jackson Whittemore.</p><p>“Or maybe we would have broken up, and I would have gone to MIT and then Stanford, and I never would have even heard of Beacon Hills,” Lydia continues. “Or I would sometimes wonder, what if Derek hadn’t stumbled into my life? Would I have made it here? Would he?”</p><p>“Lydia,” Stiles murmurs, afraid to interrupt Lydia when she is on a roll.</p><p>“Or what if Melia hadn’t been strong enough to keep the Nemeton from consuming Danny? What if Julia <em>did</em> manage to assassinate you? Then where would we be. What if Cora died? What if the Nemeton didn’t even exist, so there was nothing for Beacon Hills to build itself around – would I be dead? Would we all be dead?”</p><p>There is a hunted look in Lydia’s eyes when she refocuses on Stiles. “Living in the conditional,” she concludes, “in the <em>what if</em>s, the <em>should have</em>s, the <em>would</em>s, the <em>could</em>s – it’s not living, Stiles.”</p><p>A soft breeze lifts the loose strands of hair that have fallen out of Lydia’s braid, floating strawberry-blond ribbons across her face. She studies Stiles intently, her expression asking him if he understands what she is trying to say, and he does. Stiles is not quite sure if he can live it, yet, but he understands it.</p><p>“I get it,” Stiles concedes.</p><p>She reaches out to stroke his cheek, a wry smile curling her lips. “You’re here,” she tells him. “You have us. And that is all you ever have to think about.”</p><p>Tears prick behind Stiles’s eyes, and he is quick to pull Lydia into a hug, hiding his emotion by pressing his face to the top of her hair. He breathes in the scent of her shampoo for one, two seconds and then lets go, recomposed. “Good sandwich, right?” he says, picking up his plate again, and Lydia mercifully lets slide everything he is refusing to say in this moment.</p><p>As the afternoon stretches on, their pack and the people they love begin to find them. First are Scott and Allison, Allison already giddily buzzed from the faerie wine samples. When Allison plops down next to Lydia, she hands Stiles an unopened bottle– one of four sticking out of her tote bag – and conspiratorially whispers, “For you,” before breaking down in giggles. She and Lydia begin to gossip about God knows what, because the two of them have got on like a house on fire since Stiles introduced them over pack dinner.</p><p>Scott crashes next to Stiles, ruffling Stiles’s hair. “This place is incredible, Stiles,” he says earnestly, and Stiles cracks a smile.</p><p>“Yeah, it is,” Stiles agrees. “Maybe you and Ally should move out here. You could establish your own veterinary practice.”</p><p>Scott laughs as if Stiles were joking, but there is a small part of Stiles that latches onto the idea as a real possibility.</p><p>Jordan, Boyd, and Erica show up an hour later, Erica sitting on top of Boyd’s broad shoulders and brandishing two lacrosse sticks. “Scott! Catch!” she shouts, because among her eclectic obsessions – real estate, birdwatching, hair treatments, crocheting, astronomy, and synchronized swimming, to name just the things that Stiles knows about – lacrosse is one of them, and learning that Scott was captain of Laverton High School’s varsity team had sent her over the moon.</p><p>She throws one of the sticks like a javelin at Scott, who stands and just saves Stiles from being nailed in the face. “Erica!” Stiles yelps, and she does not look the slightest bit sorry when she flashes a smile at him. She jumps off of Boyd’s shoulders, and she and Scott start playing catch in the grass behind them.</p><p>Shortly after the food and drink stands pack up, Isaac rolls up with a pastry box of the few things that did not sell at Whittemore Bakery’s stand. Stiles splits one of Derek’s old-fashioned doughnuts with Jordan and Allison and ends up with a raspberry jam stain on his pants when Boyd fumbles a handoff from Lydia. Boyd is apologetic, but Lydia just frowns at Stiles and wordlessly hands him her sunscreen again.</p><p>They decide to pop open the faerie wine when the sun starts to drop towards the horizon. The mosquitoes are just beginning to come out, but right as Lydia is about to pull out her bug spray, Danny stops by to say hello. “Hey, Danny,” Stiles says jokingly, “is there anything you can do about the bugs?”</p><p>There <em>is</em>, apparently, and Danny gets a rousing cheer when his blessing makes the mosquitoes lose interest in their group. “It’s temporary,” he warns before he returns to strolling down the stone walkway with a stranger whom Stiles has spotted hanging around the Mahealani’s apothecary more and more frequently.</p><p>“Does Danny have a boyfriend?” Stiles asks Lydia.</p><p>Lydia snorts. “Danny would also like to know the answer to that question,” she says, and Stiles laughs.</p><p>Slowly, and then all at once, the sky turns from blue to a deep orange. Stiles finds himself tracing with his eyes the shapes of the distant clouds that cut purple and blue lines against a fiery canvas. There are pinks in there, too, and softer golds, as well as a hint of green in the distant treetops that is so dark it seems like black. Stiles loves Beacon Hills sunsets, in their glorious mess of nebulous shapes and vibrant colors, but more often than not he forgets to watch for them, so distracted and consumed by other things. His sunburnt skin is already pulling tight against his cheekbones, but tilting his head back to absorb the last of the rays still feels like a luxury, and Stiles so rarely lets himself indulge.</p><p>The orange has turned to a deep purple bruise when Stiles hears Lydia say, with fond exasperation, “<em>There</em> you are.” He turns in the direction where her voice is pointing and sees Derek and Cora walking towards them in the rapidly approaching dusk, their arms thrown around each other.</p><p>“Fucking finally,” Erica groans. “I’m ravenous. I could eat an entire deer right now.”</p><p>The group begins to mobilize, gathering scattered belongings and stretching out stiff limbs. Erica and Boyd lead the way out of the park, where they will all pile into the Camaro, the Jeep, or Allison’s Hummer, and reconvene at 13 Cuttlebuck Lane for dinner.</p><p>Stiles waits a moment, though. The further the sun slips, the easier it is to see the moon. It is a waxing gibbous, tonight – a term he learned from Erica. The higher in the sky he casts his gaze, the more stars he can also see, winking into existence. <em>Conditional</em>, he thinks. There is some connection, between what Lydia had said earlier and not knowing by just looking at a star whether or not it is dead. The present cannot be determined by the future of an unseeable past, perhaps.</p><p>Or something like that. For now, Stiles is just watching a night sky, feeling the wind dance over his skin and hearing the frogs start to sing from a nearby waterway.</p><p>“Stiles?”</p><p>Stiles drops back to earth. Lydia and Derek are waiting for him a few paces down the path, turned toward each other but looking at him. Derek smiles and holds out his hand, his vulnerable palm and splayed fingers open to Stiles, and Stiles –</p><p>– he takes that hand, fitting his fingers into the space created between.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This work started about a year ago. Having read several works in which Stiles was a certifiable badass, I began with the notion that I wanted to write an overpowered Stiles, a stranger who bursts into everybody's lives and turns their worlds upside down and right-side up.</p><p>Instead, I found that an OP Stiles needed as much help as the others who found themselves living in Beacon Hills. This became a tale about healing, about breathing, and about finding ways to create space, for yourself and for others, to be.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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